"So are you going to tell me why you're here and not there?" Will asked, stretching his legs out before him and tipping back a glass of brandy.
Duncan ran his hand over his face. He had removed his veil with his hat. Both lay on the floor at his feet. "She said she'd not lie with me."
Will chuckled.
Duncan glanced up, his stare grim. "I see no humor in the matter. I've never raped a woman. It's bad medicine. And I'd certainly not rape my lady-wife."
Will chuckled again and then attempted to cover the sound with a sip of brandy. "Just out of curiosity, friend, why won't she sleep with you? Did you show her the size of your cod? Perhaps she'd be willing then."
Duncan frowned, refusing to be baited by the jest. "She says I don't know her. Something about what she likes to eat, the name of some damned cat." He looked up. "You know, female crap."
"Did you show her your face?"
Duncan didn't understand. How was it that Will was always able to cut to the crux of the matter? "No."
"Is that a problem for her?"
"Yes."
"So show her your pretty smile and charm her a little. Don't just tell her to drop on all fours. That's not what women like, Duncan." Will rose, tightening the silk tie on his robe. "Sing to her, bring her flowers, better yet, jewels. Take her riding, take her to a play to show off her jewels. Ask her the damned cat's name. For sweet Christ's sake, seduce her, Duncan."
"Seduce her?"
"Yes, you addlepate. You want to get her with child, don't you? Well, the only way that's going to happen is if you lie with her. Play her game. I warrant you it will move much faster than yours."
Duncan sighed. "I don't know. I'm not up to it. I haven't time to play the gallant like you. I have work that has to be done before I set sail for Maryland."
"The hell you haven't time for her. Make the time." Will leaned on the mantel of the cold fireplace. "You'd like her, I think . . . if you'd just get to know her."
Duncan looked up. "You sound sure of yourself."
"I am." Will picked up Duncan's hat and veil and tossed them to him. "You might surprise yourself if you give it a chance. You might just fall in love with the little minx."
Duncan dropped the veil over his face and adjusted it. Such a comment didn't even deserve a retort. "I'm sorry for disturbing you and your companion." Duncan eyed the hallway that led to will's bedchamber.
"It's nothing."
"I imagine she'd say the same." Duncan chuckled at his own joke. "Well, thanks for the drink."
Will held open the door for him, slapping him on the back as he went by. "So, when can I come bearing wedding gifts? I'll deliver only to the bride in person and supper must be provided."
"You'll come when you're invited," Duncan snapped. Then he was down the dark hallway and gone.
Jillian stood at the window of Duncan's vacant office, surveying the need for fresh paint. Behind her, she heard footsteps. She did not turn because she knew who it was.
Duncan shuffled his feet in the doorway. "What are you doing?" There was a definite lack of hostility in his voice. He was attempting to be nice and doing a fine job of it.
"Trying to decide if I'm going to have the walls painted lime or tangerine." She turned to face him, unsmiling. She, Beatrice, and the dowager had dined alone this morning. This was the first time she'd seen him since last night. She didn't want to let him off too easily. "Which would you prefer, my lord?"
He looked up at the paneled wall that framed the window looking out into his mother's garden. "I was thinking both. Lime here—" He pointed to one wall. "—and here." He gestured with the other hand. "And the tangerine on the other two walls. What do you think, madame wife? Would it suit me?"
Jillian couldn't resist the hint of a smile. "Not at all. Your cousin, mayhap, but not you. Black would be more appropriate for you, I should think."
It was his turn to smile. He looked away and then back at her. He was dressed handsomely today in a black doublet and fawn-colored breeches. By the simple cut of the cloth and the hat he held in his hand, he appeared to be headed for the docks where two of his merchant ships had only recently come into port from the American Colonies. "It's good to see that you have a sense of humor. I should think we shall both need one if we are to make this marriage a comfortable one."
Jillian bit down on her lower lip. Was he trying to apologize? Was he saying they would start anew? Why was it that men had to always be so cryptic with their emotions? Why couldn't he just come out and say he was sorry?
She picked up the paint samples from his neat desk and turned to face the paneled wall again. "Apology accepted."
"Pardon?"
She glanced over her shoulder. "Your apology is accepted, my lord." She went on without skipping a beat. "I know you said my sister must go, but can she stay just another few days? She's been invaluable to me with the work being done here."
Jillian heard him chuckle.
"You're a clever minx, Jilly. I'll offer you that."
She turned around, this time giving him her best smile. When Duncan spoke to her like that, he made her shiver with warmth. A man like this, a woman could fall in love with.
"I don't mean to be clever, sir. It's only that I want my sister near me. And your lady-grandmother has become so fond of her. She'll not want to see her go either."
Duncan nodded, feigning gruffness. "All right, she can stay another few days, but keep her out of my way."
Jillian bobbed a curtsy. "Thank you, sir."
"But . . ." He held up one finger, seeming to be enjoying their banter as much as she was. "I have one request."
Jillian dropped her hands to her curved hips. She had dressed carefully this morning in a forest-green woolen gown that accentuated the color of her hair. "If you think I'm going to let you kiss me, you're wrong."
He threw back his head in laughter. "A kiss, is that what you were thinking?"
A kiss? God above, what had possessed her to say such a thing?
He took a step closer, and Jillian began to feel like a lamb being stalked by a lion.
"No, actually," he said softly, "I wanted to tell you we'd be attending a small party at Whitehall tonight. The king has requested our presence. He wants to see the new Countess of Cleaves. Word travels fast through the city, doesn't it?"
"The king!" She brought her hands to her cheeks. "I can't call on the king. What have I to wear?"
Duncan took a step closer, chuckling. "I'm sure you'll come up with something. And now that you mention that kiss, I think I'll take one . . . wife." He crooked a finger bidding her come closer.
Jillian meant only to give him a brotherly peck on the cheek, but when her lips touched his smooth-shaven skin, he moved his head. His mouth touched hers and immediately a spark arced between them. He smelled of shaving soap and maleness. Jillian couldn't help herself. Without thought, her hands raised, only to lower on his broad shoulders. She parted her lips to taste him, to be tasted. Her pulse leapt. Her heart pounded in her chest.
"Jilly, Jilly," he whispered, his arm encircling her waist. He brushed his lips against her cheek, then the lobe of her ear, tickling her, his warm breath making her shudder with anticipation. "I am sorry for being such a brute last night. It was wrong of me. And I'm sorry for my accusations concerning the boy."
Jillian pulled back so that she could look into his face. Cautiously, she lifted her left hand so that she could touch his cheek. Only the purple veil was between her hand and his scars, which seemed to have no texture through the material. "So we begin again," she answered.
"You mean you'll let me come to your bed tonight?"
She smiled, slipping her hand into his. "I mean I'll accompany you to Whitehall tonight, and promise nothing more."
With a smirk, he gave a squeeze to her hand and broke away. "I'm expected at the docks, but will be home in the early evening. I'll have the coach ready by eight." He gave a mock bow at the doorway. "So until tonight, madame, your servant."
Jillian heard his footsteps in the hall and then another's. As she turned to go back to the paint selection, she heard Duncan's voice. He was speaking to Algernon. Though she couldn't hear their words, she could hear the two pitches of their voice, Algernon's being higher than Duncan's. After a few moments of talk, the sounds died away.
Jillian walked around Duncan's orderly desk whistling to herself. That man could be so utterly charming when he wanted to be, couldn't he? That man . . . why he was her husband!
Jillian was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she didn't hear any footsteps. All she heard was someone close the door behind her.
She swung around, laughter still in her voice. "Duncan, I thought—" She stopped mid-sentence. It was Algernon. Her smile fell. "Oh, it's you." She turned her attention back to the wood paneling around the window.
"I cannot believe you did this behind my back."
She could smell the ale on him from where she stood. "What are you talking about?"
"You know full well what I speak of!" His words were noticeably slurred. "Marrying him." He came around the desk toward her, his face contorted in anger. "Didn't I warn you it wasn't advisable? Didn't I tell you I wanted you for myself?"
"You need to go, Algernon. You're intoxicated. Duncan will be back momentarily."
"He will not." Algernon took a step closer, and Jillian walked around the leather-upholstered chair, putting it between them. "The earl has gone to the docks to see his precious ships." Algernon's voice was thick with resentment. "He'll not be back for hours."
Jillian gave up pretending to concentrate on the task at hand. She tossed the paint samples onto the desk. "I'm busy. What is it you want?"
"Now, now, dearest Jill. We must talk."
She refused to meet his gaze. "Please leave."
He put his hands on the arm of Duncan's leather chair, leaning in toward her. "You can have this two ways, Jill-y. You can make it easy on yourself or difficult. But once the land and title have been restored to me, I can promise you I'll remember who my friends were. Duncan will be out on his ear." He stood up again. "Pity you married the cold fish." He shrugged his shoulders. "But I'll let you stay in the house just the same." He raised one plucked eyebrow. "In return, of course, for certain feminine favors."
The tone of his voice made her shiver despite the sunshine pouring in through the window. Suddenly, she was afraid. "I've been patient with you up until now. I haven't told Duncan what you've been saying, what you're doing."
"Doing?"
She gave the chair a push toward him, angry that he could frighten her this way. Algernon couldn't harm her. She knew that. This was just a fantasy of his, having the monies and title returned. He was drunk, and that was why he was making such ridiculous statements. He would never be the Earl of Cleaves again. She knew it. He knew it. This was just the raving of a jealous, inebriated man. "You've been following me, listening to my conversations." She pointed an accusing finger, a thought suddenly dawning on her. "Why I'd wager you told Duncan where I went yesterday."
"I did no such thing."
Before Jillian realized what he was doing, he reached out and brushed his knuckles against the swell of her breasts.
Jillian reacted without thinking, bringing her hand up to slap him hard across the face.
Algernon's hand flew to his mouth and tears welled in his eyes. "You hit me," he wailed, suddenly sounding more like boy than a man. He looked at his hand spotted with red. "You made me bleed."
"Duncan will do worse. Now, leave me and don't bother me again. I'm warning you, I'll tell him and then you'll be gone. There'll be no allowance, Algernon. No money. No roof over your head. No money—no drink, no cards, no Fleet Street whores." She pointed to the door. "So save yourself while you have the chance."
Algernon stood there for a moment, unsteady on his pink-and-blue high heels, nursing his cut lip with a lace handkerchief.
Jillian held her breath. She had feared this confrontation for weeks. And now she had surely made an enemy.
To her relief, Algernon backed down. He shook his head as he walked toward the door blotting his mouth. "You've made a mistake, Jillian." He hiccuped. "A terrible mistake."
There was a sudden rap at the door, then it swung open. Jillian was relieved to see Atar's solemn face. He glared at Algernon. "Could I be of assistance, madame?"
Jillian looked at Algernon. She didn't know how much Atar had heard. "No," she said after a moment. "Algernon was just leaving."
The manservant and Duncan's cousin exchanged looks.
"I was just going," Algernon said, sulking.
Jillian waited until Algernon had left the room. Now she wasn't certain how to handle Atar. He was her husband's manservant. Surely he passed information onto the earl about what occurred in his household. She cleared her throat. "I don't know what you heard, Atar, but—"
"It is not my duty to hear, only to follow my master's bidding. I am here to serve you as well as the Earl of Cleaves."
She smiled. "Good. Excellent. It's just that I don't want my husband to be inconvenienced by such trivial matters."
"Is there anything else, madame?"
She looked at the man's broad, black face, thankful to have him as an ally. "No. No, that will be all. Thank you."
Atar left the room without a sound.
Nine
The two sisters walked along the garden walk, hand in hand, Beatrice, silent as she often was, leaving Jillian to her thoughts. The London air had grown cool in the last few days. Leaves had fallen from the trees overhead, littering their path with bright golds and deep reds.
Soon the rains would come, and then the snow and another winter would be upon them. Jillian wondered when she and Duncan would set sail for the Colonies. Not until spring she guessed . . . she hoped. For though she knew it was inevitable she would have to leave Beatrice behind, she wasn't ready, not yet, when matters were so unsettled between her and Duncan.
Jillian swung her sister's hand casually as they walked. Two weeks she and Duncan had been legally wed, yet she still didn't feel like his wife. He had made a deliberate effort to be kind to her. He had brought her gifts: a rich green-velvet cloth, embroidered with silken thread from China; an old book found in a London shop he thought would interest her; a gold bracelet studded with tiny emeralds said to have been brought up in a treasure chest from the depths of the sea. Duncan was attentive, amusing, and utterly charming.
He had taken her to Whitehall to meet the king, to a play at the theater, even sailing on the Thames. But the best aspect of his courting, for surely he was courting her, was that he had made no attempt to demand his husbandly rights. He had left their intimacy up to her, moving at a pace she set. They held hands; they kissed; he touched her with the familiarity of a husband, but not intimately. He was waiting for her, and she was beginning to think that she was almost ready . . . if it were not for the veil.
That veil Duncan wore over his face to hide his scars still lay between him and Jillian. He proclaimed it was of no importance, but she insisted it was. If he could hide his face from her, what else did he hide? In many ways Jillian felt she had gotten to know Duncan in this fortnight, but in many ways he was still the stranger she had encountered in her father's garden. He had learned much about her, but somehow managed to tell her nothing of himself. When she questioned him, when she tried to discover what truth there was to the rumors that abounded in London, he grew dark humored and ruminating. Because Jillian didn't want to spoil their progress, she had not pushed him. She longed to share the intimacy of husband and wife with him; she burned for it when he was near, but his secrecy kept her from giving into her desires.
"Jilly . . ." Beatrice's voice broke Jillian from her reverie.
"What is it, sister?" She squeezed Beatrice's hand, thankful she
had her during this trying time.
"Jilly, I think it's time I went home to Father's house."
Jillian stopped on the path, turning to face her. "Go? You can't go. You can't leave me here with him, alone."
Beatrice did not meet her sister's gaze, but instead concentrated on a wren fluttering in the lilac bush just off the path. "Perhaps that is what you need. No man . . . no man wants the woman he was once betrothed to in his newlywed house. I . . ." She sighed. "I'm afraid I'm interfering."
"Why would you say that?" Jillian caught Beatrice's hand, forcing her to face her.
"It—it's no secret in the household that he doesn't sleep with you, Jilly."
"Oh, that." Jillian let her sister's hand fall. "Atar watches my every move. He knows more about Duncan's habits than Duncan does. I suppose the servants gossip."
"Some."
Jillian glanced at her sister with errant determination. "Well, it's no one's business but our own. I barely know the man. I have a right . . . no, we have a right to take our time with this!"
"I'm sorry." Beatrice stared at her shoes. "I didn't mean to upset you. It's simply that I was afraid it was my fault. He said I was to go home. He keeps saying I should go home, but you keep me here."
"Oh, heavens, don't you know Duncan well enough by now to know that he growls simply for the sake of hearing himself?" She caught her sister's chin with her hand. "Bea, if he really wanted you to leave Breckenridge, you'd have gone from here that first night."
Beatrice sighed. "I suppose you're right."
"I am right." She tugged on her sister's hand. "I want you with me. I need you. You know I'm not comfortable with Algernon creeping about the house the way he does and Duncan forever down at the docks or attending to his shipping business."
Beatrice dropped one hand to her hip, lowering her voice as if she feared Algernon might be sneaking about the hedges. "I can't believe you've not told Duncan, Jilly. You have to tell him."
My Savage Lord (Hidden Identity) Page 9