Lady Persephone chose that moment to remind her mother, “I have accepted His Grace’s offer of marriage, Mother. We are in complete accord. Whatever the duke asks, he has my full support.”
Nicely done, Jared thought, but did not give voice to such. He would later when he and Persephone were alone. Alone…his gaze found hers. Warm deep brown, the color of melted chocolate, had him anticipating more than just her assistance launching his sister into society.
He quite looked forward to seeing her raven tresses spread across the snowy white of his bedlinens. Her eyes looking up at him with…dare he hope…affection.
He closed the distance between them and raised her hand once more to his lips. Pressing a swift kiss to her knuckles, he held on to her hand, noting the slight tremble and knew he would do all in his power to convince his lady wife that he was bound to her for more than lending her consequence to his sister.
He’d been intrigued when she’d fallen against him and stared up at him at the Hollisters’ ball with those entrancing eyes and full rose-colored lips.
“I shall send my carriage around to collect you at nine o’clock,” he advised, smoothly tugging on her hand and twirling her against him, tucking her safely at his side, where he intended to keep her. Persephone’s soft sigh was music to his ears.
“So early, Your Grace?” Lady Farnsworth asked.
He nodded. “Madame Beaudoine is to arrive at half nine to fit Lady Persephone.”
“Is that enough time to sew a gown?” Lady Farnsworth asked. “What time are you to be married?”
“I took the liberty of sending a message to Madame Beaudoine yesterday. She assured me it could be done.” He noted she did not ask if he intended her to be there. “We are to be married at eleven o’clock.”
He glanced at Persephone, noting the curve of her cheek and blue-black tendril that slipped from its mooring. Did her hair reach her shoulders or her waist? He would know of a certain by tomorrow evening.
“I should have made myself clear,” he said. “I would have you accompany your daughter as I am certain she would want you to be there.”
“Thank you, Jared,” Persephone said.
“Er…yes,” her mother echoed. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
He inclined his head to Lady Farnsworth. “Until tomorrow.”
When Persephone eased out of his hold, he lifted his hand to cup her cheek. When their eyes met, he rasped, “Tomorrow.”
He strode from the room, a man on a mission, ticking items off his growing list of appointments: call on his solicitors regarding his marriage to Lady Persephone and all that might entail. He’d let Lady Farnsworth send the message to the marquess about their marriage. Meet with Coventry and the O’Malleys to see if there is any news regarding Persephone’s maid’s whereabouts.
Afterward, he intended to meet with Edward to apprise his brother of his intention to marry on the morrow.
He nodded to the Farnsworth butler, wordlessly thanking the man as he handed Jared his top hat and gloves.
Outside, his footman moved to open the door to the duke’s carriage. As the coach slowly drove away from the Farnsworth town house, he felt a sense of rightness fill him. Persephone would be installed in his town house on the morrow.
Continuing with the long list of items he’d have to accomplish before then, he went over them in his head as his coachman drove to his solicitors’ offices. The gown he’d commissioned from Madame Beaudoine would be fitted by the modiste herself at half nine.
At eleven o’clock, he’d marry Lady Persephone of the warm brown eyes, rosy full lips, and raven hair.
At quarter past, he’d carry her to his bedchamber and make love to Persephone until neither one had the strength to do more than smile.
He rather liked the image of her in his bed. He would be loath to leave her, but leave her he would, when it was time to collect his sister from Wyndmere Hall and return to London where his duchess would be waiting.
“Bloody hell,” he grumbled. “I suppose I’ll have to feed Lady Farnsworth and my brother first.” He’d been so wrapped up in the images his mind conjured up, he’d neglected to think about a wedding breakfast. He had attended one or two and knew the small celebratory meal to be de rigueur.
At least his ever-growing list would keep him too occupied to entertain any further thoughts of capturing her lips and plundering the sweetness he knew lay just beyond.
If he’d never gained the title of duke, he could dispense with all of the rigamarole and toss his bride over his shoulder, taking the steps to his bedchamber two at a time until he’d deposited his bride in the middle of his bed and then turned around to lock the door.
One thought stopped all others…were he not the Sixth Duke of Wyndmere, would Lady Persephone have accepted his offer?
He rather thought not.
Chapter Thirty
Persephone smiled at the footman who reached for her hand as she climbed down from the duke’s state coach. The ride from her family’s town house to the duke’s was brief, but exceedingly comfortable.
She waited on the sidewalk for her mother to alight. “Quite impressive, Mamma, don’t you think?” Persephone linked her arm through her mother’s and, together, they walked to her future husband’s London home. “Is that the duke’s seal on the door?”
“I’d imagine you’ll find it literally everywhere you look,” her mother replied. “But I would caution you not to let His Grace observe you looking for it. It wouldn’t do to have him think you’ve accepted his offer because of his title,” Lady Farnsworth cautioned. “So do be circumspect.”
Persephone met her mother’s fulsome gaze and agreed. “No, of course not. That was not why I accepted.”
As the door opened with a flourish, Persephone whispered, “He needs me.”
Her mother frowned at her daughter, but Persephone was too busy greeting the duke’s butler. “I’m—”
“Lady Persephone, Lady Farnsworth,” the butler intoned. “Jenkins at your service.” He bowed and motioned for the ladies to enter the town house. “His Grace is expecting you both. If you will follow me.”
Nerves had her empty stomach roiling and rumbling.
Lady Farnsworth sighed rather loudly. “You should have at least had a bite of bread and tea this morning.”
Persephone leaned close to her mother so as not to be overheard by Jenkins. “I do not believe it would have stayed in my stomach for long, Mamma.”
Her mother patted her daughter’s hand and drew in a deep breath. “Not to worry, I’m certain we shall be able to prevail upon the duke to send a tea tray for your fitting with Madame Beaudoine.”
Jenkins paused before a pair of doors that reached from floor to ceiling. “Madame is not due to arrive just yet. Shall I ask cook to send a tea tray?”
As he reached for the doors to open them, Persephone asked, “Would it be all right to wait until Madame Beaudoine has arrived? We wouldn’t want to trouble your cook to put together two tea trays in such a short time.”
“I assure you, Lady Persephone, it would be Cook’s pleasure.” He bowed and opened the doors to a room filled with sunlight.
“Oh!” Persephone swept into the room ahead of her mother. “Isn’t it lovely? The way the sun shines so brightly?”
Her mother smiled. “A very pleasant room.”
Persephone ran a hand along the back of a pair of settees facing one another. One upholstered in a palest of rose, the other a companion fabric of cream and rose stripes. “Do you feel the warmth, Mamma?”
This time, her mother softly laughed. “I do indeed, Daughter.”
“If that will be all?” Jenkins intoned from where he still stood in the open doorway.
“Er…yes,” Persephone began, only to be interrupted by her stomach growling quite loudly. She put her had to her waist and sighed. “I do beg your pardon, Jenkins.”
“I shall see to your tea tray at once.” The light in his eyes was the only indication he’d heard her tummy
rumbling.
“Thank you.” Persephone would not let mere mortification over the fact that one of her servants…well he would be in just a few hours…had been on hand to hear the future Duchess of Wyndmere’s empty stomach growling.
Good heavens, the import of her new title had her knees going weak. She sat heavily on the edge of the rose-colored settee.
“Are you ill?” Her mother seemed concerned.
Persephone shook her head. “No. Unnerved and uncertain,” she confessed as her mother sat beside her.
Lady Farnsworth reached for her daughter’s hand and held it firmly. “Best tell me now before the tea tray arrives.”
“I hadn’t given a thought to the fact I’d be a duchess,” she rasped. “What if I am not up to all that will entail?” Her breath snagged in her breast. But before she grew lightheaded, her mother’s arm wrapped around her.
“You have learned how to run an estate, and all that requires. Our tenant farmers and their families love you.”
Persephone sighed and was able to draw in much-needed air. “I love living in the country…it’s London that has my wits gone positively begging.”
Her mother pressed a kiss to her daughter’s brow. “A restorative cup of tea and a bite of jam and bread or scone will take care of that. I have absolutely no patience or desire to find where mine has gone of a morning until after I’ve had two cups of tea and a bite to eat.”
Persephone leaned against her mother. “I do believe I shall miss you quite terribly, Mamma.”
Her mother nodded her head in agreement. “Until you and your duke share those first precious moments as husband and wife. You do remember all we spoke about last night?”
Persephone sighed. “Yes. But—”
“Trust the duke to know how to go about…er…things.”
Persephone watched her mother brushing at an infinitesimal speck on her sleeve. Her mother had always acted in such a way when embarrassed. “Mother, were you and Father not married twenty years?”
Her mother’s back went ramrod straight. “Why do you ask, when you already know the answer?”
“No reason especially,” Persephone said before adding, “except for the fact I think you would know a bit more about what occurs in the marriage bed.”
“Persephone Amelia Farnsworth!” Her mother shot to her feet, knocking Persephone off the edge of the settee.
“The Duke of Wyndmere,” Jenkins’ dulcet tone had her groaning inwardly as her elbow smacked against the wood frame of the seat, eliciting an expression that had her mother groaning.
The duke was at her side in moments, helping her to her feet. “Are you injured?”
She had not the words to answer him. That her husband-to-be would find her in a heap…on the floor of his upstairs salon prior to their wedding had her embarrassment trebling. Could she do nothing right? Would her life always be thus? Persephone seeking to do the right thing, acting in a proper manner, and then one unladylike comment to her mother and…well—
“Persephone,” he rasped, sliding one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back.
She stiffened as he lifted her off the floor into his arms. “Yes,” she whispered. “Quite, thank you.”
He set her down on the settee with infinite care and stared down at her. “Is aught amiss? Shall I check the settee to see if it is somehow unbalanced?”
Her gaze shot up to meet his. She could simply not bear it if he was laughing at her. The deep blue of his eyes startled her—he was so close…but it was a depth of emotion yet unexplored. Desire…for her.
Did he then? For how long? Until she’d delivered his heir and a spare or until she’d done something beyond the pale to embarrass him and bring shame to the family name?
She had no idea if it was common—much less proper for a husband to feel any sort of emotion toward his wife. Most marriages were made with wealth and property in mind. At times, to secure a title—which was not her case. She couldn’t care less about the man’s title or his wealth. Her father had set aside a sizeable enough dowry for her that she’d been highly sought after her first Season. After she’d refused a half-dozen fortune hunters, the line of gentlemen seeking her hand in marriage vanished. Mayhap that had been after she’d decided to discourage them by speaking her mind.
Her father had patted her hand and told her a gentleman worthy of her would appear and sweep her off her feet. After her father had died, she’d taken the bull by the horns and decided to don the guise of hideous-colored gowns and spectacles to secure her spot as the richest bluestocking amongst the ton.
She saw sincerity laced with worry replacing the desire in his brilliant blue eyes. Such lovely eyes…straight nose…and that eyebrow quirked up in question “I beg your pardon,” she rushed out. “I was woolgathering.”
His mouth lifted at one corner, the slightest indication he’d been amused by that last statement from her. “Better that,” he soothed, “than because you’d injured your person when you landed on your…uh—”
She giggled. She simply could not help herself. The Duke of Wyndmere was trying so hard to be correct, while she knew he searched for the socially acceptable phrase to describe what had happened: she’d fallen off the settee and landed on her bottom.
She had to get control of herself. “I am so sorry. You see, I am a bit nervous and was sitting on the edge of your lovely rose-colored settee,” she said, stroking a hand along the beautifully woven fabric.
The duke sat beside her. “And?” the duke inquired, brow still raised in silent question, adding to his dukely air.
“Persephone, dear, do answer His Grace,” her mother urged.
“Yes, well, you see,” she said before she turned her gaze back to where he sat—far too close for her comfort given the circumstances. Her stomach growled in earnest this time.
His brows raised and his lips curved into a heart-stoppingly beautiful smile. The full power of the duke’s handsome features: the sculpted lips she longed to trace with the tip of her finger. His cleft chin and dimples—dimples! Dark wavy chestnut hair…and his eyes…brilliantly blue eyes.
She could not credit that she’d be married to this man in a few short hours. That he would then have the right, by the laws of the church and the land, to take her upstairs and take what would be rightfully his—her virtue.
“Mrs. Wigglesworth has arrived with the tea tray,” Jenkins said to the room at large.
The duke stood. “Not a moment too soon.” Turning to Persephone, he said, “Mrs. Wigglesworth has been our housekeeper since I was a lad. Jenkins has been with our family a bit longer than that I’m told.”
“I’m delighted to meet you both,” she said as her traitorous stomach rumbled yet again.
“My dear girl,” Mrs. Wigglesworth said as she motioned for the two maids carrying the tea trays to set them down at once. “Here now,” she said, “I’ll just put a plate together for you. Cook was not certain which of her delicacies to add to the tray. Do you have a preference?”
Lady Farnsworth smiled. “If it is sweet, then my daughter would prefer that above all things.”
“I do beg your pardon, Lady Farnsworth,” the duke said. “May I introduce our indispensable housekeeper and butler, Mrs. Wigglesworth and Jenkins.”
“A pleasure,” her mother said. “We were in such a rush to be ready when your coach arrived, Persephone did not have time for her usual breakfast.”
Persephone sighed. It wouldn’t do to let others speak for her. She hadn’t let that happen in years. It was unsettling that her reaction to the duke distracted her enough that it happened today of all days. “I confess to being a bit nervous, Your Grace,” she said, meeting his direct gaze. “I’ve never been married before,” she said by way of explanation.
“And at your advanced age, of two and twenty,” he said with a wry smile.
“Er…yes,” she said, “precisely.”
There was a twinkle in the deep blue of his eyes. He found this situation amusing. Sh
e was unsure if she should be vexed in the extreme with him for laughing at her, or relieved that the duke had a softer side where he could find laughter in the course of his days.
Choosing the latter, she returned his smile and asked if she should pour. Mrs. Wigglesworth and her mother beamed at her as the duke answered, “If you would please.”
Persephone nodded and added, “As long as you don’t mind my stomach’s rumbling commentary of the delicacies your cook has supplied. By the way, Your Grace, what is your cook’s name?”
“Mrs. O’Toole,” the duke replied. “She’s been with the family for years.”
She carefully poured the first cup of tea, handing it to her mother and then pouring a second cup for her duke…hers. Good Lord, what exactly was she to do with a duke? Fragments of the conversation she’d had with her mother prior to falling off the settee when her mother abruptly stood had her realizing there was quite a bit they would be doing behind closed doors.
Would she enjoy spending time in their marriage bed? Would he care whether she did or not? Persephone planned to find out before she lay upon it. Until then, she’d concentrate on being studiously correct in her thoughts, actions, and words. She vowed to make the best of it. As her mother advised the night before, she would close her eyes and think of something else.
Ignoring the clench in her middle at that last thought, she poured a cup of tea for herself, but set it in front of her. When Mrs. Wigglesworth handed her a plate with two raspberry tarts, two scones and a treacle tart, she felt tears springing to her eyes. She’d miss their cook’s scones most desperately. Ever since she was small, Mrs. Hughes had tried to chase her out of the kitchens whenever Persephone had wandered in, intent on snitching a bit of batter from whatever their cook was stirring in her favorite bowl.
She thanked Mrs. Wigglesworth and set her plate alongside of her teacup…leaving both untouched.
The duke’s housekeeper and butler, seeing that all was in order and were no longer needed, quietly left the room.
The duke asked, “Would you excuse us for a few moments, Lady Farnsworth? I would like to have a word—in private—with Persephone.”
Mending the Duke’s Pride Page 24