A Duke by Default: Dangerous Dukes Vol 3

by Wendy Soliman

  ‘Your Grace.’ They were interrupted by Charlotte’s breathless voice. She ran up to them in a swirl of pink dimity. ‘Mama sent me to tell you that tea is being served in the small parlour.’ She linked her arm through his in a familiar manner that embarrassed Harriet. ‘I suppose you are too busy to be spared?’ she added over her shoulder to Harriet. ‘Mama and I shall entertain His Grace and I can tell him of my suggestion for a ball at Endersby.’

  ‘You paid your respects to my family before coming in search of me?’ Harriet felt irrationally hurt.

  ‘Your mother has invited me to remain for dinner.’

  ‘I see. Return to the house with Charlotte then.’ She kept her back to him and adjusted the tap on a barrel that required no adjustment. ‘I shall join you when I can.’

  He placed a large hand on her shoulder, forcing her to turn and meet his gaze. ‘I came to make sure everything was all right,’ he said softly.

  In spite of her best efforts to remain detached, his concern for her left her with a smile on her lips as he turned away again, and she watched his elegant form disappear in the direction of the house. He cared enough to check up on her and didn’t mind admitting it.

  It was a start.

  Marc had been right in his assessment that Freddie’s condition was not life threatening. Delayed by last minute problems in the mill, she returned to her chamber with little time to change before dinner. The puppy was still subdued, but clearer-eyed and able to wag a greeting when he heard her voice. Relieved, she turned her attention to her attire, regretting that she hadn’t brought something with her from Endersby that would impress her husband.

  Defiantly, she pulled one of her oldest evening gowns from her closet—one that had most definitely seen better days. It was of pale green muslin, a favourite of Harriet’s. But she had lost a lot of weight since assuming her father’s responsibilities, and it was far too large for her now. She tied the sash tightly beneath her breasts and then contemplated her hair. Having neither the time nor inclination to dress it, she simply brushed it out and tied it at her nape with a ribbon to match her gown.

  She was the last to enter the drawing room, which was crowded. The boys always took their evening meal with the rest of the family, which had been extended to include both Mrs. Forbes and Mr. Swift. She thought she had entered unobserved since all eyes were upon Charlotte, who had taken up a position firmly centre stage. But Marc’s head turned in her direction, almost as though he sensed her presence. His gaze locked upon her face and then fell to rest upon the dark curls spilling over her shoulders. Detaching himself from the body of the assembly, he moved to his wife’s side and placed her hand on his sleeve.

  ‘You’re late,’ he whispered in her ear.

  ‘Unlike others I could name, I had work to delay me.’

  ‘How is Freddie?’

  ‘He seems to be recovering. It was foolish of me not to keep him under proper control.’

  ‘Puppies are like small boys. They have a knack for getting into trouble whatever measures are taken to prevent them.’ She felt the muscles in his forearm flex beneath her fingers. ‘Come now, dinner is served and you must be famished.’

  Marc escorted her into the dining room, holding her chair while she arranged her skirts to her satisfaction.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘That gown is too large for you,’ he murmured, looking down at her, his eyes lingering upon the exposed area of her breasts. Harriet’s cheeks burned with embarrassment, but the rest of her body smouldered with profound desire for this infuriatingly complex man whom she had been foolish, or perhaps sensible, enough to marry.

  ‘Stop it!’ she hissed.

  He raised an innocent brow. ‘Stop what?’

  ‘You know very well. You appear intent upon provoking me.’

  ‘I am certainly intent.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She regretted the words as soon as they passed her lips. She seldom won verbal battles with him. He calmly took up a position at her side and spread his napkin across his knee. As he did so, she felt his hand briefly come to rest on her thigh as he innocently addressed a remark to Charlotte.

  ‘I should have thought it was obvious,’ he said, returning his attention to her.

  ‘Marc, please don’t embarrass me like this in front of my family. Whatever will they think? I shall be back at Endersby on Saturday.’

  ‘But what of tonight?’

  Her heart stuttered. ‘What of it?’

  ‘I can’t ride ten miles in the dark.’

  Harriet gulped. ‘You should have sent word if you want to stay here. The spare rooms aren’t made up.’

  He chuckled then—actually chuckled as though she had said something intelligent or vastly amusing. A piquant thrill ripped through her at the sound of his throaty laugh and the implication that he had missed her enough to come in search of her. She was sure that was against the stringent rules he had laid down for the terms of their marriage.

  ‘Then I must throw myself upon your mercy.’

  ‘I am here to work.’ But her protest lacked conviction, and they both knew it.

  He lifted a brow. ‘So, my dear, am I.’

  Marc observed his wife struggling to understand the reason for his visit. He wished her good fortune, since he scarce comprehended it himself. He thought she was pleased to see him, even if she was now feigning disinterest. His difficulty was that he wasn’t entirely indifferent towards her, despite his best efforts to remain immune to her charms. It was a situation which couldn’t be allowed to continue, for her sake as well as his own. He was determined to get over his mild infatuation. Once he knew her better, the novelty was bound to wear off and things would return to an even keel.

  The conversation around the table ebbed and flowed, dominated by Charlotte. Harriet spoke little and seemed distracted. Marc darted frequent glances at her profile. She appeared composed, but he sensed she was still suspicious about his intrusion into her family life. He had promised not to interfere with the cider mill but he had made no such vow with regard to her leisure time here. He had scarce experienced a moment’s peace since her departure for Matlock House, worrying constantly that some accident might befall her at the hands of those who wished to acquire his late uncle’s bequest. Word would have been sent to him immediately if she had experienced any difficulties of that nature but something stronger than his own will had persuaded him to call and ensure first hand that she was unharmed.

  In the drawing room after dinner, the atmosphere between them crackled with barely suppressed tension. Perhaps sensing his growing irritation with Charlotte’s chatter, Harriet was the first to say she intended to retire. Mindless of what the rest of the party would make of it, Marc bade the company good night as well, and followed his wife from the room.

  ‘Ah, he recovers.’ Harriet entered her chamber and peered at the sleepy puppy, who wagged his spindly tail and looked up at her through eyes that were once more fully focused.

  ‘So it seems.’ Marc spared no more than a passing glance for the puppy, his eyes resting steadily upon his wife instead.

  ‘I am fearfully tired, Marc,’ she said, not meeting his gaze.

  ‘Then sit down and I shall help you to relax.’

  ‘No, really, I—’

  ‘Sit!’ he repeated firmly, in the same tone he used with Freddie.

  ‘I am not a dog.’

  She sounded miffed but flounced towards the dressing table and sat on the stool. Marc stood behind her, released her hair from the ribbon that held it and ran the thick tresses repeatedly through his fingers. Then, pushing it aside, he placed his lips on the back of her neck while watching her face in the mirror. Her entire body reacted with a violent tremble. Ye gods, but she was sensitive!

  ‘Am I making you uncomfortable?’ he asked, pausing before nibbling at her shoulder through the fabric of her gown.

  ‘No, you are making me confused.’ She met his gaze in the mirror. ‘I don’t understand what yo
u want or expect from me.’

  No one could accuse his wife of not being direct. He had no idea how to answer her, so he evaded the question.

  ‘Hand me your hairbrush, if you please. I must act in Martha’s stead and administer one hundred strokes or she will accuse me of neglecting you.’

  ‘Not tonight, Marc.’ She shook her head, pulling her hair from his grasp. ‘I am simply too weary.’

  The devil take it, she really was tired, and he was adding to her strain. ‘Of course.’

  He placed the brush aside and proceeded to knead her shoulders with his fingers. She was as tight as a drum.

  ‘Relax, Harri.’

  He felt her shoulders drop as she closed her eyes and rolled her head backwards, surrendering to his touch. He continued to un-knot the kinks with firm strokes of his fingers, probing and teasing at her stiff muscles, finally extracting groans of relief from his lovely wife.

  ‘What business takes you to London, Marc?’ she asked with her eyes closed.

  ‘Nothing that need concern you.’

  ‘It seems odd that you have only recently quit the capital but need to return there again so urgently. Oh, that’s so very agreeable!’ She writhed beneath his hands. ‘Do it again.’

  ‘I would, if only you would stop talking about irrelevant subjects.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She was silent for only a moment, her next words as stunning as they were unexpected. ‘Marc, are you going to visit your mistress? Is that what calls you away?’

  He dropped his hands. ‘What in heaven’s name are you talking about?’

  ‘Do you have a mistress?’

  He felt mildly amused by her continued directness. ‘Wives are not supposed to ask their husbands that question.’

  ‘Not proper wives perhaps, but our relationship isn’t like that. Besides, I’m curious. If you are in such urgent need of your mistress so soon into our marriage, then I must be doing something wrong. I would like to know what it is so that I can rectify the matter.’

  Perdition, is that why she had been so quiet during dinner? She thought she was failing him. Oh, my love, if only you knew!

  ‘You are doing nothing wrong, Harri.’ He felt a moment’s guilt as his thoughts dwelt upon the elegant lady whom he had installed in a residence in Chelsea some years previously.

  ‘By not denying you have a mistress, I must assume that you do.’ She looked up at him and even in the dimly lit room he could see her eyes were sparkling, not with anger, but with mischief. ‘Will you not tell me what happens between you? I should dearly love to know.’

  Every word that spilled from her generous mouth surprised him. She certainly didn’t want for spontaneity, and her disingenuous questions kept him on his mettle. ‘Why this sudden preoccupation with mistresses?’ he asked.

  ‘Why should I not be curious?’ She lifted her slim shoulders as he recommenced massaging them. ‘Even if I would prefer not to share you, if only because it makes me feel like such a failure, I still know how important they are. My difficulty is, I am not sure exactly why. I mean, if a man has a wife to…er, take care of his needs, why would he want a mistress, too?’

  She really was such an innocent, and Marc found her open curiosity surprisingly refreshing. ‘Mistresses attend to any cravings a man might have which it would be inappropriate to inflict upon a wife. Now, can we please drop the subject?’

  ‘I had reasoned out that much already,’ she told him sweetly. ‘There must be more to it than that.’

  ‘God’s teeth, Harri!’ She was worse than Freddie when he took it into his head to chase the ducks on the river at Endersby and nothing and no one could entice him away. Marc felt more like strangling her slender neck than massaging the shoulders that supported it. ‘You are enough to try the patience of a saint.’

  ‘So I have been told on more than one occasion. Charlotte’s not the only one who likes to have her way.’ She bit her lip, tilted her head back and looked up to him with a sensual smile. ‘It must be a family failing.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’ He sighed. ‘But the subject is closed.’

  ‘Would you like to do to me whatever it is that you do to your mistress? Is that it?’ She met his gaze, a deep blush suffusing her features.

  ‘I would like that very much,’ he murmured in spite of himself, ‘but I have no intention of treating you with such disrespect.’

  ‘If I have no objections, then why should you? And it would have the added advantage of saving you a trip to town.’

  ‘Harri.’ Marc threw back his head, striving for patience. ‘Ladies of quality do not indulge in such behaviour.’

  ‘Ah ha, but I am not a lady of quality. I’m merely a brewer’s daughter.’

  ‘No, you are not.’

  ‘Well, all right, I know now that Papa wasn’t actually my real Papa, but that doesn’t signify. I am more Mr. Aston’s daughter than you could possibly know.’

  He sighed with indecision. That his wife of five days was offering to prostitute herself for his enjoyment beggared belief. He had been in a state of semi-tumescence since arriving at Matlock House earlier and being obliged to watch her at work in her tight-fitting breeches. She was completely unaware just how compelling she was, and it had been all he could manage at the time not to throw her into the pile of straw she kept to separate her wretched cheeses and take her there and then. He appeared to have little self-control where she was concerned, he conceded with a grimace. The sooner he could be sure she was with child and he could safely distance himself from her, the better it would be for what remained of his sanity.

  If she was so determined to extend their activities beyond that which he considered acceptable then he was damned if he knew how he was supposed to resist her. He could feel the blood pounding through his veins as he momentarily considered the possibility of obliging her, but he dismissed the notion before temptation took precedence over common sense. He simply couldn’t do it. He would not permit her to set a tenor for their couplings which had no place in their clinical arrangement. Order and method was the key to everything in Marc’s world and it was essential he remained dispassionately in control.

  His dealings with Harriet were no different to the other matters of business he attended to on a daily basis but, as a gentleman of honour, he couldn’t permit her to debase herself in a fashion she didn’t comprehend. He needed to impregnate her, which necessitated taking her to bed regularly until he knew he had achieved that objective. Once he had done so, he would have as little as possible to do with her and return to the patiently waiting lady in Chelsea when his baser needs required sating.

  Marc, a man of rigid standards and iron control, would discharge his duties in respect of begetting an heir on his own terms, which most definitely didn’t permit for the engagement of his feelings—not at any level. He knew all too well what would happen if he permitted himself the luxury of indulging in emotion. He waited for this call to duty to quell the doubts that nibbled away at his subconscious, stubbornly clinging to the belief that his heart had no part to play in his dealings with Harriet and so it couldn’t be held responsible for his uncharacteristically indecisive state. The little minx was entirely to blame for the uncertainty that consumed him. Her sparkling eyes were currently smouldering with a fiery challenge as she regarded him with a combination of passion and beguiling innocence, rousing his jaded spirit as the unthinkable once again nudged its interfering way into his brain.

  He turned away, refusing to meet her gaze as he continued to ponder upon the delicacy of the situation. She would not be easily deterred and he now wanted her so much he was having difficulty arranging his thoughts coherently. A different method of satisfying her fledgling passions, nothing out of the ordinary, but exciting for one as inexperienced as she, would perhaps deceive her into believing he had complied with her request. Wondering again if he had taken leave of his senses, he conceded in his current state of concupiscence his less than ideal plan for dealing with his quixotic wife would just hav
e to serve.

  Marc hadn’t realised how long he had been mulling over his difficulties, until he noticed a confused frown replacing the earlier expression of unguarded passion in Harriet’s eye.

  ‘Very well, Harri, since you’re so determined, we will try something a little more out of the ordinary.’

  ‘Excellent! What am I to do?’

  ‘Before you can commence your career as a femme fatale, my dear, you must first learn to appreciate the meaning of passion.’

  ‘Then you must teach me.’

  ‘It’s impossible to teach passion,’ he responded with a chuckle. ‘It’s something one feels instinctively. It is however possible to alert one to its presence and to teach one to extract the maximum pleasure possible when it chooses to put in an appearance.’

  ‘Then what are we waiting for?’

  ‘The first thing to remember about passion,’ he told her, ‘is that it can’t be hurried. One must allow plenty of time for it to develop and grow at its own pace.’

  ‘I see.’

  He quickly removed her clothing and his own, then took her hand and conducted her to the bed. She wasn’t wearing a stich now, and nor was he. The situation didn’t appear to embarrass her as it had just a few nights previously when he had taken her virginity. How quickly she had adapted.

  ‘Lie down on your side, Harri, facing away from me.’

  He watched her, smiling at her eagerness as her dark hair spilled out across the white sheets in her scramble to oblige him. ‘That’s right.’ He reached for her waist and pulled her firmly against his groin. ‘Good, are you quite comfortable?’ Her curls nodded vigorously, which he took to be an affirmative. ‘All right, are you sure you wish to continue with your lesson?’

  ‘Quite sure. It’s interesting.’

  ‘All right. Now, because you’re turned away from me you won’t be able to see my hands and what I intend to do with them.’ She shivered. ‘Yes, it’s an exciting prospect, is it not? Close your eyes, sweetheart, and concentrate upon how I make you feel.’ He reached for her. ‘Tell me what you feel when I touch you like that.’