What the Groom Wants (9 page)

“I have sailed all over the world, fought for cargo, killed pirates, and even commanded a crippled ship as it limped toward home. I have stared down mutineers and wielded a whip until the deck ran red.” He dropped his voice. “And I remember the men who laid down their lives on my orders and those who would do so again at my word.” He looked pointedly at the portraits lining the hall. “Can any of them say the same?”

“Yes,” returned Lady Eleanor with steel in her tone. “Every duke since William the Conqueror has served the crown.”

She began itemizing the accomplishments of his forebearers, as if each word were a dagger thrown at his face. She spoke of men of letters and others of science. Of wives who were models of grace and stewardship for the next generation. Far from being offended, he listened with rapt attention. This was where he came from. These were the people who sired his father and grandfather. He felt a fierce stirring of pride at all the things he’d never heard.

The shame did not come until her last words. They were spoken darkly and with a condescension that was as cool as she was beautiful. And they cut him deeply.

“And not a one,” she said, “ever saw fit to strip off his boots to show the world the hole in his stocking.”

He waited to respond. He’d long since learned that a rash tongue would never serve him well. So he took his time, allowed the shame to course through him long enough for it to fade, while anger stepped into its place. Then he drew himself up to his full height and spoke with equal coldness.

“I have a hole my stocking because the last duke cast out his own son for the audacity of loving the wrong woman. You didn’t ask me about my grandmother. Though my grandfather passed when I was young, my grandmother lived until a few years ago. She was a lovely woman, generous and kind. She rarely spoke of her husband’s family, and what she said was simple.” He arched a brow, waiting for her to ask. In the end, she did.

“Was she bitter?” Lady Eleanor finally asked.

“No. Just sad. She said the old duke missed watching his son grow into a fine man. He never met his grandson who was a scholar despite his lack of an elite education. And, of course, he’d missed knowing me.” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine cutting a child out of my heart. I don’t think I would have respected the man very much.”

She didn’t answer for a long time. Then she said, “Your great grandfather was not the last duke.”

He frowned. “What? But—”

“My father inherited the title for six days.” Her expression wasn’t so much sad as sculpted from stone. She was chiseled perfection, and yet, her beauty left him cold.

“My apologies,” he said with a mocking bow. “Of course, that makes all the difference.”

“It makes no difference whatsoever. They are all dead, your grace. Except me and a few others.”

He looked away, suddenly ashamed. Nearly everyone she’d ever known was gone, and a stranger stood in her father’s stead. It had to be difficult. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to think. And in that moment, the worst remark popped out of his mouth.

“They want us to marry, you know.”

He saw her flinch. It was the tiniest movement, but he saw it nonetheless. Then, when he didn’t fill the silence, she lifted her chin to look at him calmly. “It makes logical sense,” she said.

“It makes no sense whatsoever. Marry a stranger for the sake of a title? You may put a great deal of stock in that, but I certainly do not.”

Her head tilted, and he would swear that he saw shock on her face. But it was so hard to tell. This woman revealed herself in the tiniest fragments of an expression, as fleeting as a single raindrop.

“There is a great deal for you to learn. I can teach you much, but not respect.”

“Respect, my lady?” he said, barely keeping a sneer from his voice. “I respect a great many things, but—”

“Nobility, apparently, is not one of them.”

He rocked back on his heels as he studied her. Was she furious? Was her jaw clenched? Her eyes narrowed? He couldn’t tell. In the end, he simply shook his head. “I do not think you and I will suit.”

“No,” she said stiffly. “I do not believe we will.”

He looked down the hallway, seeing the huge dark faces of his ancestors and Seelye’s stiffly formal stance. Was he truly supposed to fit in among these people? Worse, to lead the family and the estate as he’d once led his ship’s crew?

It boggled his mind. This could not be what God intended. And yet, here he was. Again, he studied these two, and understanding sparked. “You two have been told to train me, haven’t you? Just as I was ordered to court you, Lady Eleanor, those impertinent solicitors have told you to bring me up to snuff.”

Seelye reared back as if struck. Lady Eleanor’s reaction was much more contained, but on her it was as loud as any outburst. She walked two paces so that he looked directly into her face.

“No solicitor would dare give such an order to me,” she said. “And it would be highly inappropriate for them to speak with Seelye at all.” Her lips tightened. “Which only goes to show how little you know of us.”

“Of course,” he said as he took the next logical step. “No orders were needed. You knew your duty as does Seelye.”

Neither one had a response. Radley looked at his stocking feet. He saw the hole in the toe and the coarse yarn that scratched his feet and made him hate shoes. And yet, as uncomfortable as it was, as cheap and threadbare as it was, it suited him better than anything in this house.

“I do not want to be here any more than you want me,” he finally said. “I was going to captain my own ship and sail to India for spices.” Then he lifted his chin. “Would you prefer I recant the title? I can do that, can’t I? Give it up?”

She went pale, and Seelye rushed forward. At first, Radley thought the man was nearly violent in his reaction, but then he belatedly realized that he had stepped forward to catch Eleanor should she faint. He’d cupped a hand under her elbow to keep her standing. Radley tensed as well, worried by her unnatural pallor.

It took her a moment to recover. She took a few deep breaths and lifted her arm out of Seelye’s hand. “I’m fine,” she said in a weak voice. Then she repeated it with more strength. “I am quite well, thank you.” She turned her eyes onto him. “I do not know if you can refuse the title, but I would ask you…” She swallowed. “I beg you not to do so.”

He frowned. “But you don’t want me as the duke.”

“I don’t want the title extinct either!”

Ah. Damned by faint praise. “So I am better than nothing.”

She huffed out a breath. “You are a great deal more than nothing. It has yet to be seen if you can help the people under your care or destroy them.”

He stiffened. “I meet my responsibilities.”

She gave him a serene—and rather cold—smile. “Then you and I shall get along famously.”

He matched her pose. “I doubt that, Lady Eleanor. I truly do.”

Oddly enough, that brought out her smile and again, he was struck by her beauty. Poised, elegant, and as cold as stone. Except when she smiled and warmth touched her eyes. “This has been the first step in our dance, your grace. Absolutely nothing is certain at this point.”

“Radley,” he said, startled when the words left his mouth. After all, he needed all the authority he could muster with these people. If they did not call him “your grace” at every turn, they would likely think of him as a rough sailor forced into their midst. And yet, despite all logic, he insisted on the informal address. “I am your cousin Radley.”

“Then you must call me Eleanor.”

He nodded, wondering if he should kiss her hand. He stepped forward to do just that when Seelye cleared his throat.

Radley looked up, wondering if the butler objected to the abrupt informality between him and his cousin. But then Eleanor smiled.

“I believe our dinner is served.”

“Really?” He looked at Seelye. How had the man known? No footman or servant had slipped into the hall to inform him. How could he possibly know what the state of their dinner was?

Eleanor must have understood his confusion. “I find it best to not question these things. Servants have their own magic, which is completely mysterious to us above stairs. You will learn to simply rely upon Seelye’s accuracy.”

For a man used to running a ship’s crew, the idea of such a mystery disturbed him deeply. On board, he had known every aspect of his subordinates’ tasks. He might not have checked everything or seen it accomplished, but he knew how it was done and could, if necessary, do the work himself. Always.

Seelye bowed formally. “If you would follow me.”

Eleanor waited, obviously expecting Radley to offer his arm. He did so, feeling awkward next to her elegance. And then, all three proceeded downstairs to dine.

“I suppose I shall have to buy new clothes,” he said with a sigh. He hated the business of clothes—the measuring and fitting and all that nonsense.

His cousin’s musical laugh filled the stairway. “Cousin Radley, clothes are the easiest of things that you are about to buy.”

And on that ominous statement, they settled in to dine.

Wendy could not believe how much work she was getting done. And not just quick work, but perfect stitches, smooth seams, and even decorative touches. She was focused, as she hadn’t been since the early days of the dress shop.

And the reason for such industry? Radley. She knew that he would be there by midnight, so she had to get everything done by the time he arrived. So she worked like the wind, and she smiled as she did it.

Then midnight came and went. Ten after. Twenty after. Twelve-thirty. Her hands slowed, her stitches became uneven, and exhaustion crept into her muscles. She set the work down.

Where was he?

The workroom door pushed open. There stood Radley, his face flushed, his eyes bright, and a grin of excitement stretched his face.

“Wind!” he cried as he rushed forward. Except he wasn’t all that steady on his feet, and his hip banged one of the tables. “Bugger,” he cursed under his breath.

“Shhh!” Wendy hissed as she leaped to steady him. Fortunately, he found his own balance soon enough. But a noise from above had her glancing at the ceiling. “Helaine’s mother lives above the shop.” Hopefully, the sound came from the shop cat, but one never knew.

He put his hand to his mouth and nodded gravely, though his eyes danced with merriment. Wendy sighed. He was foxed. Deep into his cups, by the look of it. But at least he wasn’t a mean drunk. Instead, he appeared to be one of those interminably happy drinkers.

“What have you been doing all this time?” she demanded. She tried to keep the shrewishness from her voice, but the disappointment was like a cold knife lodged in her throat. Didn’t he know how much she had been looking forward to his visit?

“I have discovered the most amazing thing,” he said. His words didn’t slur badly, but she noticed anyway. “The duke has…” He frowned then corrected himself. “I own the most incredible brandy.”

She leaned her hip against her table. They were separated by yet another table in the workroom maze. “And where was this brandy?”

“At
my
London home.” He thumped his chest with obvious pride. “In Grosvenor Square!” He slowly worked his way around the table, moving with a drunk’s care. “I’m supposed to go there tomorrow with Mum. Formal presentation and all that rot. But I wanted to see it tonight.”

“I see. Didn’t it upset the staff, you showing up a day ahead?”

He nodded. “I sacked a man because he was rude. And the butler, Seelye—” He rolled his eyes. “Protective old codger, but we managed to work things out.”

“No doubt,” she said dryly. “Probably at the end of the first bottle.”

“Yes,” he said, not catching her sarcasm. “The wine is first rate too! Eleanor says that’s the one thing the old duke always made sure of: best drink. The wine cellar is as big as a frigate’s hold!”

She straightened. “Who’s Eleanor?”

“My cousin,” he said. “She’s the one everybody wants me to marry.”

The cold in her throat expanded through her heart. “So you’ve met her,” she whispered.

He nodded gravely as he maneuvered to stand in front of her. “Beautiful girl. Makes my eyes hurt, she’s so beautiful.”

She blinked, her eyes burning unexpectedly. “Really?”

“But we don’t suit,” he said. “She’s too…” He waved a hand vaguely through the air. “Ducal.” Then he giggled, repeating the word. “Ducal, du-cal, duck all.”

She frowned as she thought back to all the gossip she’d heard. Some had centered on which of the duke’s family survived, and it included one Lady Eleanor. The descriptions of the woman had all mentioned her beauty, but many referred to her as a cold bitch. She ought not be so relieved by the description.

But here was Radley, smelling of brandy and spice, as he closed the distance between them. He set his hands on her hips and stepped closer, so that she had to look up to see his face. She might have run, but she’d trapped herself against her worktable.

“Now,” he said with a grin, “I believe I promised you a kiss.”

She held up her hand, stopping him when he would have claimed it. “I don’t kiss drunks,” she said firmly.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” he said, as his lips moved across her hand. He started at the tips of her fingers, nipping lightly, before teasing the pads with his tongue. Against her will, her fingers relaxed, opening slightly so that he was able to isolate her middle finger enough to suck it inside his mouth. She gasped at the feel of his tongue swirling around her finger, at the rough scrape of his teeth, and the hard suction that pulled her whole body toward him.

She fought the urge, though her blood simmered with desire. He was so handsome as he looked at her, his copper eyes bright with devilry as he teased her hand.

And as she struggled within herself, one of his hands snuck around her hips. Before she realized what he was doing, she was pressed flush against him. Her arm was trapped between them, and he kept sucking her finger, while below, she felt the hard press of him against her pelvis.

“Radley,” she whispered. “You’re drunk.”

He pressed another kiss into her palm. “I suppose I am.” He lifted his gaze off her hand to look into her eyes. “But not just on drink. It’s you, my Wind. Do you know how many nights I have dreamed of you? Of holding you like this?” He stepped her further back, pinning her against the table. Then his hands began to rove up from her hips.

She could barely move, but his hands found her breasts. So many sensations, while his fingers searched for her nipples, and his hips ground against hers. She was dizzy with what he did to her, and as his mouth nibbled her cheek, she felt her knees grow weak. She couldn’t think, until some rational corner of her mind had the strength to push against his chest and knock one of his arms aside. Not far, but enough to ease the distracting rub against her nipple.

“Radley, no.” There was power in her voice. It got stronger as she turned her face aside. “I’ll not kiss you when you stink of drink.”

“I think you will,” he said, his lips an erotic tease against her jaw. Even his breath heated the air against her ear, fanning the flame in her blood to an inferno. “I have something for you,” he said. “Something that you want.”

He twisted slightly, reaching into his pocket with his free hand. The other squeezed and shaped her right breast. His hand was clever for all that his motions were clumsy. He lifted her breast, his thumb unerringly finding the point of her nipple. And with every pass of his nail across the raised bump, her blood sizzled and her belly clenched. She tried to push him away, but there was no metal in her arms.

Then he pulled back enough to hold up a purse before her eyes. It was bulging with coins, and he grinned as he held it there. “It’s for you. It’s the money I promised.”

She didn’t move, his words effectively dropping ice into her veins.

“Come on,” he said, as he jingled it before her. “They’d shut the doors to the bank before I got there, but they opened them for me. I’m a duke now, and so they had to!”

She swallowed, her mind pulling back far enough to see what was happening, as if she were a fly on the wall. Here was a man, his voice thick and his body slow from drink. He had cornered a woman against a table and was now offering her coin with one hand, while the other rooted at her teat.

The image made her sick. That she was the woman, and Radley was the man, made it even worse. Hadn’t he been the one who insisted on propriety? On courting her like a gentleman?

She cursed and gathered her strength. Then as hard as she could, she shoved him aside. He was two-stone heavier than she, but he hadn’t expected the violence of her reaction. He stumbled sideways. Not completely off her, but far enough that she could escape. She did so clumsily, and she heard her gown tear where it had been caught between him and the worktable.

Then he recovered, his eyes wide, while the purse dropped to the floor with a heavy thud. “Wind?”

“Don’t call me that!” she snapped, not understanding why—of all things—she objected to that. “My name’s Wendy.”

“But you’re my—”

“I am nothing to you!” she said, choking back her sobs. “Nothing but a whore for you to pay and—and—” Her words were choked off as she pressed a hand to her mouth.

“What?” he said, gaping. “You asked me to come! You said you wanted a kiss!”

She had. She did. But not from a drunken aristocrat. She wanted Radley the gentleman. The prince of her neighborhood, who had protected her from bullies and thanked her so sweetly when she helped his sister. She wanted that boy from her memory, not this drunken cad.

She drew back, her eyes burning from unshed tears. “Go home, Radley. I don’t want to see you like this.”

“Wind—” he began, then corrected himself. “Wendy, please. I thought you wanted…” He swallowed, cutting off the words, but not before his meaning was clear. He thought she wanted to rut for the price of his purse.

She knew she was exaggerating. She knew that wasn’t how things were between them. But the similarity was too close, and she could not reconcile the two. Not with him drunk and the purse lying half spilled on the floor.

She bit her lip, her eyes drawn to the dull sheen of coin. She needed that money. With it, she could finally be done with Damon. But the thought of bending down to pick up the purse now made her nauseous. Her one kiss with Radley was so pure in her memory, like a bright moment of sunshine on a dark day. She couldn’t taint them both with this. That kiss was the only beautiful thing in her life. She couldn’t sour it. It would crush her.

“I don’t want the purse,” she said. “I’ve found another way to pay off Bernard’s debt.”

His expression darkened. “How?” He took a heavy step forward. “How, Wendy? There’s nothing a moneylender will take but hard coin or barter.”

His tone left no doubt as to what that barter would be. He thought she was spreading her legs to save her brother. The idea was laughable, given what they’d just been doing, and suddenly, all her fury came blazing out. Hot and passionate, the words burned as they left her mouth, but that didn’t stop her.

“You think I’m that cheap? That I’d sell myself to any man for this?” In a quick swoop, she picked up the purse and threw it at his face. Drunk as he was, he still managed to catch it. “Get out! Get out now!”

“What’s the meaning of this?” came another voice—Helaine’s mother, Lady Chelmorton, as she stepped into the room. One glance showed the woman was in a bed robe, but she had a hot poker in her hands, raised to strike.

Wendy turned to Radley. He’d gone pale at the sight of the older woman, but his eyes blazed with fury. He held up his hands in surrender, but his gaze was trained on her. “You
asked
me to come.”

“And now I’m asking you leave,” she said. Then she added two words, spoken in a sneer. “Your grace.”

He flinched. She’d said the words in the same mocking tone they’d used as children whenever they referred to a useless prig of an aristocrat. He straightened to his full height as he walked around the table toward the door. Lady Chelmorton followed, poker still raised.

He made it to the door but stopped to add his last piece. “That’s right,” he said. “I’m a duke now. There’ll be dozens of women begging for my attention—”

“Then go to them!”

“But I don’t want them, Wind. I want you.” His eyes darkened. “But I won’t wait much longer.”

She took an angry step forward. “You haven’t waited at all. You’ve been home a day!”

He sketched her a mocking bow. “Even so.” Then he hauled open the door and disappeared into the dark.

***

Radley woke with a deluge of water on his face. He choked, then reared up while sputtering and coughing. That was a mistake. Rearing up, sputtering and coughing, all of it—a huge, huge mistake. His head pounded, and his stomach heaved. It was only by sheer willpower alone that he kept his stomach contents inside his miserable body.

Someone was speaking. Actually, more than one someone. Females. But the words would not steady in his head, and God knew, he had no desire to open his eyes. He held his head in his hands and prayed that the world would stop spinning.

In the end, a male voice cut through the female gibberish, silencing the women, and he was never more grateful than at that moment. A few seconds later, and the noises resolved into words.

“We’re going to be late! And he can’t go there looking like that!” Female. Shrill. Oh yes, Mum.

“Give the lad a moment. He’s used to mustering at the sound of a whistle. He can manage a shave and a clean shirt by two.” Male voice. Slight Scottish brogue. Who the hell was that?

“He needs more than a shave. He needs a bath and a delousing.” Female voice. Softer than the first. He smiled. His sister, Caroline!

Then her words penetrated, and he squinted at his sister. “I do not have lice!”

In answer, his sister folded her arms and smiled. “He stirs! My goodness, Radley, you’re not dead after all.”

He bloody well wished he were with the way his head pounded. Then the man stepped forward. He was a handsome, rugged man with scars on his hands and a simple coat made of fine cloth. And he extended a flask.

“Here. This’ll help.” Rad took it greedily, unstoppering it and tipping it to his mouth, while his mother sputtered her objection.

“He doesn’t need more drink! Good G—”

“It’s not what you think,” the man interrupted, but he needn’t have, as Radley nearly spewed the vile concoction. He would have thrown the flask across the room, but the bastard gripped his forearm in a wretchedly strong grip. “It’s horrible, I know, but it’ll help settle your stomach. You don’t think the Scots know about a morning head? Come on. Drink all of it, or I’ll leave you to the women.”

He cracked his eyes and glared at the man. But even though the big Scot took up most of his vision, he could still see the prim features of his mother and sister to either side. Choosing the lesser of evils, he reluctantly put the flask to his mouth and choked down the stuff.

Meanwhile, the man turned to smile at the women. “See. He’s waking now. Go on, ladies. I’ll see to him from here.”

His mother spun on her heel with a sniff and stomped—bloody hell, she must weigh a ton—out of the room. His sister sighed, shook her head, and left quietly. Thank God for that, but of course, one of her disappointed sighs cut deeper than any number of elephants clomping through the rooms.