When the Duchess Said Yes (20 page)

“I’m ready now,” she said, turning away from the glass. “I’ve kept the duke waiting long enough. Shall we go downstairs?”

“In a moment.” Charlotte dismissed the maid, waiting until the door had closed behind her. “I know that Mama and Aunt Sophronia have both spoken to you of your, ah, wifely duties.”

“ ‘Wifely duties’!” Lizzie repeated with a shudder. “Oh, Charlotte, did they deliver the same sermon to you?”

That conversation in Aunt Sophronia’s drawing room had been one of the most embarrassing in her life. Because she and her sisters had been raised in the country and surrounded by animals, they’d few questions about the origins of babies. Any further details that pertained to people had been supplied by the helpful maidservants hired from the local village, girls who’d whisper frankly, even boastfully, of what they’d done with the young fishermen and sailors they intended to marry.

Yet those same acts sounded entirely different as described by her mother and aunt. They had stressed the need for respect and dignity between husband and wife, and how, while love could make anything bearable, a titled wife must never forget that her primary purpose in the marriage was to produce an heir.

This had been most uncomfortable for Lizzie to hear
from her mother, who, of course, had failed at that very task. Mama had held her own circumstance up as an example, wistfully explaining how, because of three daughters and no sons, Lord Hervey’s title and estates had escaped the family entirely. The stakes rose immeasurably with a dukedom, and now that Charlotte had so swiftly and ably produced two sons, Lizzie must surely follow. Yet as difficult as this had been to hear, worse still had been Aunt Sophronia’s instructions for the best methods for achieving male offspring.

“Could there be anything less romantic than Aunt Sophronia’s advice?” Charlotte said sympathetically. “To hear her explain things, it’s a wonder any wedded couple continues together.”

Lizzie wrinkled her nose with distaste. “All I could think of was the village bull brought to cover the poor cows every autumn.”

“Well, yes,” Charlotte said, blushing. She flicked open her fan, fluttering it furiously before her face. “But for lack of any other words, I listened too closely to what Aunt Sophronia said, and in the beginning March and I suffered greatly for it. I would not have you make the same mistakes, Lizzie.”

“That won’t happen with Hawke,” Lizzie said quickly, now blushing, too. She didn’t want to hear any of Charlotte’s bedchamber confessions about her and March, and she certainly wasn’t about to volunteer any about Hawke. “He wouldn’t pay any heed to Aunt Sophronia, not when he calls her a harpy.”

Lizzie hoped the mention of harpies would be enough to distract Charlotte from her present uncomfortable topic.

Alas, it wasn’t. “For all that they are cousins, Hawke seems to be a much different gentleman from March in matters of, ah, worldly experience,” she said earnestly.
“Perhaps then my cautions are unnecessary. Perhaps you and he have already—”

“I must go, Charlotte,” Lizzie said abruptly, turning away. “I’ve kept Hawke waiting long enough.”

But Charlotte caught her lightly by the arm before she could escape.

“Love him, little sister,” she said softly. “Love him, and let him love you. That’s all I shall say. You needn’t please anyone else but each other. Remember that, and you will be happy.”

Sudden tears clouded Lizzie’s eyes, and she hugged Charlotte close. She knew she’d follow Charlotte’s advice and love Hawke, because she was nearly in love with him already. But she couldn’t begin to guess if he held the same feelings for her, or if he ever would. All at once she felt woefully inexperienced, as if she were blindfolded and plunging into a deep pool of uncertainty without the swimming strokes to save herself, and she clung more tightly to Charlotte. Married to cousins, they would likely never be far apart physically, but Lizzie sensed that things could not be quite the same between them again. Lizzie’s closest allegiances must now be to her husband and her new family, not her old one, a somber, sober realization for any bride.

“No red noses,” Lizzie said, finally stepping back with a monumental sniff. “That was what Mama told me this morning. Red noses do not become the Wylder women.”

Charlotte laughed, or at least tried to.

“No truer words were ever spoken,” she said, looping her arm through Lizzie’s. “Now come, I must give you over to your husband the duke. Your
husband
, Lizzie! La, how we often feared I’d never say those words!”

Everything happened very fast after that. They returned to the drawing room, where the others were still gathered, with every face turning their way when they returned, and a smattering of applause in Lizzie’s honor
as well. But there was no applause from the older ladies, who made it clear that they thought Lizzie should not have come down with her hair loose.

“Elizabeth, please,” Aunt Sophronia said, so irritated that she forgot to address her as the new duchess she was. “Pray return upstairs until you are properly prepared for company.”

“I know your new lady maid’s already on her way to Hawkesworth Chase, Lizzie,” March said, more conciliatory, “but surely Charlotte’s could help you with your hair.”

“My wife’s hair requires no help, March,” Hawke said, coming forward to take Lizzie’s hands. “It is absolutely beautiful as it is, and absolutely as I like it best.”

He smiled and kissed her. “You can’t know how pleased I am,” he whispered to her. “My own beautiful Lizzie! You remembered, and you did this for me.”

Lizzie grinned. “Of course I remembered,” she whispered back. “Though I do believe Aunt Sophronia would have my head if she could.”

“The harpy will never hold sway over you again,” he said, and winked slyly. “You’re my wife now, and you needn’t heed anyone else.”

He turned toward the rest of the room, smiling with a grand wave of his hand.

“Dear friends and family,” he announced. “My wife and I thank you all for your kindness and hospitality. Now we must leave you and begin our life together.
Auguri e addio
—good wishes and farewell!”

With his hand firmly clasped in Lizzie’s, he led her from the room and into the hall, striding so briskly toward the door that she had to skip along to keep pace.

“That is all?” she said breathlessly. “The sum of your farewell? Hawke, I did not say good-bye to my mother, or my sisters, or—”

“You’ve had all afternoon to bid them good-bye,” he
said without stopping, hurrying her down the steps and to the waiting carriage. “No, you’ve had your entire
life
. Now you’re my wife. You don’t belong to them any longer. You’re mine, not theirs.”

He handed her up the carriage’s folding steps, and at the top she turned and looked past him back at her sister’s house. There was a light breeze, the kind that often rises at the end of the day, making the white ribbons tied to the carriage ripple and dance, and her hair stream over her face. Dusk was just beginning to fall, and the lanterns on either side of the portico had been lit for the night. But the footmen had closed the door after her and Hawke, and though the first candles flickered within the windows, this time she saw no figures at the windows, and not one of her sisters or mother standing behind the curtains to wave a final time to her.

It wasn’t that they didn’t love her any longer, but that they understood that her life had changed. She had a world of new responsibilities, a household and staff to manage, a station to maintain for her husband as well as herself, children to bear and nurture. Most of all, after a life of not answering to much of anyone, she now, by the laws of church, kingdom, and custom, must oblige and obey every wish of the gentleman standing before her. She’d had months to accept the idea of her marriage and weeks to accustom herself to Hawke, but the reality of it all was suddenly hitting her very hard.

“Lizzie,” he said. “What is wrong?”

She looked down at him, standing there below her. In the fading light, his handsome face was sharply angular, his eyes and hair as dark as the coming night. He looked older, harder, faintly dangerous, and much less patient.

“What is wrong?” he asked again.

“I don’t know you,” she said bluntly. “Not at all.”

He sighed. “I don’t know you, either, sweeting. But
after tonight I expect we’ll both know each other a good deal better.”

If that was supposed to comfort her, it didn’t. She climbed into the carriage, settling in the far corner.

“I’m sorry, Hawke,” she said, feeling oddly helpless. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve not one thing to be sorry for.” He climbed in beside her, not pressing too close, but not keeping apart, either. The footman closed and latched the door, and immediately the carriage began to draw away from the house.

“I don’t know what the devil the harpies told you your wedding night with me will be like,” he continued, “but it’s wrong, every word of it.”

“They didn’t tell me any words, wrong or right,” she said, more wistfully than she wished. The carriage pulled through the open gate, and she resisted turning back for a last glimpse of the house. “They think you’ve already—already—”

“Ravished you?” he said dryly. “Well, we both know I haven’t. Not yet.”

She looked down at her hand in her lap and at the heavy new ring, the ruby gathering what little light remained in the carriage like a red flame of its own. There was no earthly reason for her to feel like this, or a way to explain her sudden apprehension, either. It wasn’t as if Hawke were some dreadful monster of a husband, or old or infirm or even poxy. Far from it. Earlier this same day she’d been so overwhelmed with desire that she’d behaved quite shamelessly with him in the church. Truly, she couldn’t have imagined a more agreeable gentleman to wed. And hadn’t every other woman in her family not only survived but prospered in arranged marriages?

“I am your wife, Hawke,” she said, still looking down at her wedding ring. “I will be brave, and I won’t fear the challenges before me.”

“Bravery!” he exclaimed. “My God, Lizzie, I trust that you won’t need a huge supply of that to face lying with me.”

“I don’t know if I will or not,” she said. “I’ve never had to lie with you before.”

“My dear, darling duchess,” he said, slipping his arm across the back of the carriage seat, and incidentally across her shoulders as well. “I know I’m now your husband, and that I have all manner of medieval rights over your person as well as your fortune. But I will give you my word as a gentleman that I’ll never hurt you, or force you, or expect you to do anything against your will. Does that give you the courage you seem to require?”

“Thank you,” she said softly, leaning back against his arm. “I couldn’t wish for more from a husband.”

“Hush now, hush,” he said, lightly crossing her lips with his finger. “We’ll have no more of that ‘husband’ talk between us, not just yet. Think of me first as the man who would please you.”

She frowned, uncertain. “But you please me already as my husband.”

“That’s a start, I suppose,” he said, sliding closer to her, close enough that she could smell the faint spiciness of his shaving soap. “But I don’t mean pleasing as agreeable. A well-buttered slice of toast is pleasing.”

“I have never thought of you as a slice of toast, Hawke.” The carriage seemed much more intimate and cozy in the dusk. The only light came as they passed the occasional lantern on the street, the brightness slashing briefly across his face. “Not once.”

“How gratifying.” His voice was low and confidential, as if he were telling her the most delicious secret in the world. Which, indeed, he might be. “When I please you, sweeting, I’ll pleasure you, too, as a lover should, and as you deserve.”

“As a lover?” she repeated, a little mystified, her own voice dropping to a whisper. She’d always thought a lover was very different from a husband. A lover was wicked and illicit, while a husband was, well, a husband. How the two could be combined was a puzzle that perplexed her, and worried her, too, as not being entirely respectable.

But then he was kissing her, and she realized how relieved she was that he was, finally, doing that. She forgot about respectability and pleasures and other uxorial puzzles, and instead slipped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him more.

In fact, she simply stopped thinking at all, giving herself over to her senses rather than her brain: the teasing feel of his tongue against hers, the taste of his mouth, still ripe with the champagne and brandy—a great deal of brandy, if March and Brecon had had their way—with which he’d drunk to their happiness, the slight bristle of his long-ago-shaven upper lip against hers.

He drew her closer so that she settled more comfortably into his arm and shoulder, as if she’d always belonged there, and her earlier anxieties began to fade. He deepened the kiss, making her blood quicken and warm. If this was pleasing, or pleasuring, or whatever he chose to call it, then she
was
pleased, supremely so. When he slipped his hand beneath her kerchief and into her bodice, she arched to meet him, shamelessly pressing her breast against his hand. Her nipple was already hard, eager for more of his touch, and his small male grunt of appreciation when he discovered it made her laugh softly.

Oh, yes, she was pleased.

“That’s my Lizzie,” he said, gently tugging and rubbing her breast with delicious results. “My own wicked lass.”

She was just beginning to tell him that he was far more
wicked than she would ever be when the carriage suddenly stopped. She frowned, turning to look from the window. They couldn’t possibly be at Hawkesworth Chase, not yet.

“Why have we stopped?” she asked, sitting upright and pulling her bodice back over her breast. One thing she’d learned with Hawke was to be prepared for overeager footmen to throw open carriage doors. She ducked to peek from the window, searching for a landmark. “Where are we, Hawke?”

“The place where we’re meant to be,” he said, and smiled knowingly.

“I have heard that before,” she said, giving his arm a small shove as the footman came to open the door. “Tell me honestly, Hawke. Where are we?”