A Second Chance With a Duke

by Claudia Stone

"Nor could I," Katherine offered him a shy smile, "But think of your mother."

  Telling a man in the height of passion to envision one's mother could only have one effect, and Michael quickly felt the urgency of his desire ebb away. They had the rest of their lives to explore further, he reasoned. Right now, they needed to make haste; for the rest of their lives might be shortened, if they missed Eudora's ball.

  They went their separate ways at the front door, Katherine taking the carriage and Michael on horseback. Not wishing for the spell to be completely broken, Michael took Katherine by the waist as he assisted her into the carriage, and bestowed a very definite kiss upon her lips.

  "Until later," he said, as he took a step back and closed the door.

  Later they would be together, dance together and laugh together. And who knew, he thought as he absently touched his lips, perhaps later they might even share another kiss.

  e

  Elsmore House was crammed to bursting with the crème de la crème of high society. Everyone who had ever been listed in Debrett's Peerage—and their distant relatives—seemed to have made the guest list.

  Michael had worried that he would fudge his role as host, that he would forget someone's name, or say something gauche, but he soon realised that he needn't have worried.

  His guests had not come for him; they had merely come to say that they had attended the biggest event of the season.

  "I think my mother must have invited the whole of London," he whispered to Katherine, after a tedious hour of welcoming a long line of guests. "I wouldn't be surprised if she'd added Prinny himself to the list."

  "I think she did," Katherine whispered back, "She said if he does not turn up, she'll simply start a rumour that he's here incognito and it will be just as good as him actually coming."

  "Probably better," Michael replied dryly; he had been in attendance at some of the prince's notorious parties in Carlton House. If the Regent decided to attend Elsmore House, the ruddy ball might last until next week.

  At last, the seemingly endless stream of guests making their way inside petered down to a trickle.

  "There's no more carriages, your Grace," one of the footmen called from the door, and Michael took this as permission for them to leave their post.

  "Come," he offered Katherine his arm, "After all that chattering, I feel we have earned ourselves a drink."

  He led Katherine to the ballroom, which teemed with lords and ladies, all glittering gaily under the crystal chandeliers. Their progress was much hampered by guests, who stopped them every few feet to chat inanely about nothing at all.

  So much hot air in just one room could not be safe, Michael thought dourly, as he suffered through Lord and Lady Buchannon's account of their weekend sojourn to Sussex.

  "It really is the only place to go," Lord Buchannon elaborated—for the third time—in his nasally whine.

  "I will keep that in mind," Michael replied, though secretly he noted that if Sussex was the only place that the insufferable Buchannon would visit, it would definitely be the last place Michael would be.

  Michael gently guided Katherine by the elbow away from the viscount and his wife, careful to adopt a look of ducal hauteur, lest anyone thought to accost them again before they'd had a drink. At last, they reached the far side of the ballroom, which was much quieter, and Michael grabbed two glasses of sparkling wine from a passing footman.

  "To Susan," he said, raising his glass in a toast to the poor woman whose life had been snuffed out so callously.

  "To Susan," Katherine echoed, her eyes filled with sadness.

  She took a sip of her wine and then another, seemingly lost in her thoughts. Michael longed to ask her what it was she was thinking of, but he was also afraid. Perhaps she was thinking that it could have been she, in Susan's place? Violence was not consigned merely to the lower classes; a viscount was as likely to fly into a murderous rage as a pauper.

  "Why do they do it?" she asked, after a few minutes of silence.

  They were both standing with their backs to the wall, surveying the crowded ballroom, so Michael could not see Katherine's expression as she spoke.

  "Why do some men do that to women?" she continued, her voice low and filled with anguish.

  Gracious, if only Michael had the answer to that question. He remained silent, as he pondered what to say in reply, delving deep into his mind as he tried to formulate an answer that might give her comfort.

  "I could not be certain," Michael answered, for having never even dreamt of hitting a woman, he could not decipher the motives of such men, "But I think that if a man has to hurt someone, in order to feel powerful, then he is very weak indeed."

  "How true," Katherine turned to look at him, her eyes warm and bright, "If only such men did not exist, for they leave great wounds upon the world."

  "Wounds can heal," Michael offered softly, "Given the right conditions and time."

  As an army man, Michael knew a lot of battle wounds; wounds that hurt were bound to eventually get better, but ones which caused numbness rather than pain were the worst of all. One risked losing one's capacity to feel anything with a wound like that.

  "Goodness, I wouldn't like to see you both at a funeral if this is what you look like at a party."

  The jovial voice of Lord Deverell roused Michael and Katherine from their contemplative silence. The Marquess of Whitethorn was accompanied by his lady wife, whose bump was quite concealed by the sheer volume of material of her dress.

  Michael's gaze must have lingered too long on Lady Deverell's midriff, for she turned to her husband and thwacked him with her fan.

  "You told him," she cried, though it was obvious she was not truly annoyed.

  "You knew?" Katherine looked at Michael with surprise.

  "So you told Katherine!" Deverell crowed to his wife, and soon the whole group had descended into good-natured bickering and laughter.

  "We could stand here and argue all night," Deverell said, once congratulations had been offered, "But I fear that if the pair of you do not dance before the night ends, that the ball will be declared a complete and utter failure."

  "Lud, don't pressure a man," Michael jested in return, though he knew his friend was right. It would not do for the host and hostess of the hour to sequester themselves away from their guests. And besides, there was nothing else that Michael wished for more than to dance with his wife.

  Bidding the pair goodbye, Michael led Katherine to the dance floor, where other couples were assembling for a set dance.

  The rest of the night passed by in a blur, as Michael danced nearly every set with his wife, only occasionally and very reluctantly releasing her to other men who sought her hand. They stayed dancing until the wee hours and dawn was near breaking as the last of the guests departed for their carriages.

  "Well, that was a resounding success," Katherine observed, as she led the way up the staircase.

  "You consider Lord Shufflebotham casting up his accounts upon the oriental carpet a success?"

  "Your mother insisted that a party is not properly festive until he does that very such thing."

  The easy banter between the pair came to a halt, as they reached the door of Katherine's bedchamber. Michael, who had received more from his wife that day, than he could ever have dared hope for, was content with the thought of a quick, chaste kiss to bid her goodnight.

  "Don't you want..." Katherine trailed off, her face flushed.

  Michael held his breath as he waited for her to finish her sentence. He would not push her to do anything that she did not wish to. He was not the type of man to force a woman into his bed.

  "Don't you want to come inside?"

  Katherine's voice was so low, that if Michael had not been listening so attentively, he might have missed her quiet invitation. She looked at him nervously, as though expecting him to refuse, an idea so laughable that Michael had to bite his lip from guffawing aloud at the idea.

  "I have never wanted anything more," he said si
ncerely.

  Years later, he would wonder at how he had found the restraint to lead his wife slowly inside, and not give in to the urgency of his need for her. But somehow, he managed to slow himself against his overwhelming desire, and he showered Katherine with soft kisses and tender words as he led her to the marriage bed.

  Their lovemaking was an entirely new experience for Michael. Before, he had seen the act as a joining of two bodies, but with Katherine it felt more like a joining of two souls. When it was all over and he lay spent beside her, he was filled with a sense of contentment that he had never thought was possible.

  This was what he had waited for a decade for, he thought, pulling his wife against his chest and savouring her warmth. Katherine yawned and snuggled against him, her soft hands resting upon his chest, just above his heart.

  The dawn was breaking properly behind the draped windows, and Michael yawned as he struggled to stay awake.

  "I love you," he whispered, as he nuzzled his wife's blonde curls.

  There was no reply forthcoming, for it seemed that Katherine had already fallen asleep, but saying the words was enough for Michael, for now.

  Chapter Eleven

  In her life, Katherine had never known such contentment as she had felt in the weeks following the ball. In the mornings, she awoke in her husband's arms, feeling safe, loved and cherished—and utterly at home. There was no feeling in the world, she thought, as wonderful as having strong arms holding you tight.

  Katherine had surprised herself with her boldness the night that she had invited Michael into her bed, but she had no regrets. They were closer now than they had ever been, and they both knew intimately the details of each other's body, and it was perfect, and wonderful—except...

  As much as Katherine had been willing to join her body to her husband, there was still a part of her which she held back. She had heard him, the first night that they had coupled, whispering an "I love you" into her hair, and yet she had remained quiet.

  Even weeks later, she still held back, despite knowing that her very being hummed and thrummed with love for her husband.

  Why was it so difficult, she reflected, to lay bare what one felt in one's heart? She knew, deep down, that she loved Michael, and that he loved her, but the remnants of Charles' words still festered somewhere within her. He had taught her to expect pain, and his lesson had been so thorough that she could not for the life of her forget it.

  Still, Katherine soldiered on, hoping that time might provide her with what she needed. She tended to her charity work in the kitchens, called out to Susan's three children in Lambeth as often as she could, and in the evenings she attended social events with Michael.

  Her life, when compared to what it had been at the start of the year, was growing fuller every day.

  The other thing that was growing fuller, was Caroline's belly.

  "Lud, I won't be able to fit through the door soon," the Marchioness of Whitethorn complained, from her perch upon the chaise longue in her drawing room.

  Katherine watched as Caroline absently stroked her bump; her friend had grown twice as big since Katherine had seen her last. Still, though she complained, Caroline looked perfectly happy with her lot.

  "You are still very neat looking," Katherine assured her friend, as she accepted a cup of tea proffered by one of the maids, "And the bigger you get, the closer you get to meeting whoever it is who is hiding in there."

  "They're not hiding," Caroline gave a delighted laugh, "If they were hiding, they wouldn't be so determined to let me know of their presence. I swear that Deverell must have a mule somewhere within his lineage, for this thing is determined to kick and kick, all day long."

  "Is it kicking now?" Katherine asked, feeling a thrill of excitement at the news. The child that Caroline carried had still seemed like an abstract concept to Katherine, for it was not she who was carrying it, but to learn that it was moving and growing, made it seem more real.

  "It's always kicking," Caroline laughed, "Come, have a feel."

  Katherine moved from her chair to sit on the chaise beside Caroline. Her friend took her hand and placed it onto her bump, and after a moment, Katherine jumped as she felt a movement within.

  "Gracious," she whispered, her eyes wide as she felt it kick again, "How strong it must be already."

  "Deverell thinks it must be a boy," Caroline replied, "Because he's so determined to annoy me night and day, and I'm quite inclined to agree, for his papa is the same. Do you know, last night he woke me at midnight to ask me if I was quite alright. I nearly thwacked him with my pillow."

  "Is he still anxious?" Katherine asked sympathetically, her heart going out to Lord Deverell, who was usually so assured.

  "Oh, he's like a mother hen," Caroline laughed affectionately, "Clucking over how I sleep, what I carry, and what I eat. I told him that after three months of not being able to keep a meal down, that I would eat what I ruddy well liked."

  "Oh, dear," Katherine laughed, "Perhaps try and dissuade him from listening to any old wives' tales."

  There was a multitude of superstitions surrounding pregnancy, from silly beliefs that eating strawberries would lead to a strawberry birthmark, to convictions that an expecting mother must never step over a rope, lest the baby emerge with the cord around its neck.

  It was all, of course, simply superstition, but when the birth of a child—especially a first child—could bring tragedy, people were wont to believe anything. Katherine's own mother had died from childbed fever, her wealth and status unable to protect her against the levelling experience of childbirth. Caroline would, Katherine knew, be perfectly alright, but if the stirrings of anxiety she felt on behalf of her friend were anything to go by, then Deverell must be wound up in knots with worry.

  "Oh, I just ignore him," Caroline replied with a shrug, "For if I listened, I would be bathing every morning in goat's milk and drinking five bottles of tonic wine a day."

  Katherine's own stomach lurched at the thought of medicinal wine, which was thick, gloopy and sickeningly sweet. A bubble of nausea welled within her, which she attributed to the lingering memory of having been forced to drink the stuff every day for a month as a child, when she had been struck with a whooping cough.

  "I can't see how drinking that much would be in anyway good for the baby," Katherine offered, swallowing a little, for her mouth felt suddenly dry.

  "Deverell spoke with one of the most eminent physicians in London, who swears it makes the mother's blood stronger," Caroline wrinkled her nose, "But no matter how eminent the man might be, he has no experience of actually carrying a child. I am already up and down all night to the watercloset, without adding five bottles of wine to the mix!"

  "Oh, dear," Katherine clucked sympathetically. Given her own condition, she had no advice to offer Caroline, but she was happy to lend a sympathetic ear. They were as close as sisters, and Katherine was glad to listen to her friend's woes.

  "Now, enough about me," Caroline continued, "Tell me all your news."

  Katherine changed the subject to other matters, telling Caroline of the musicale that she and Michael had attended the night before.

  "And how is Elsmore?" Caroline asked, watching Katherine from the corners of her almond shaped eyes.

  "Very well," Katherine flushed, "We are much closer now."

  She did not say exactly how close they were, but her blushing did not go unnoticed by her friend.

  "Wonderful," Caroline gave her an unladylike wink, "I knew that love would win out, in the end."

  Katherine did not have the heart to tell her friend that love had not won just yet, so she steered the conversation toward other, more mundane matters, until the clock chimed, signalling her to leave.

  "I shall call on you soon," Katherine promised.

  "Oh, please do. I shall be beached like a whale here upon my chaise for the foreseeable future, so call whenever you feel."

  Katherine laughed and bid her friend goodbye with a kiss to the cheek, before
departing for her carriage. The afternoon was not yet over, and she instructed the driver to take her to Tilney Street, so she could call upon Mary.

  "Bless me child, but you are very pale," the housekeeper cried, as she ushered Katherine inside, "Do you think you are coming down with something?"

  Katherine shook her head; apart from the nausea which still bubbled in her stomach, she felt perfectly fine.

  "Perhaps I ate something which disagreed with my digestion," she replied, and Mary bustled off to the kitchen, in search of a remedy.

  Katherine followed her down the hallway, marvelling at how the house no longer felt like home. Elsmore House had replaced Tilney Street within her mind as the place that she thought of as home, and the change had been so unconscious that she had not realised it utill now.

  Home was not a house, she thought, but rather wherever Michael was.

  She was still mulling over this revelation as Mary handed her a steaming cup of chamomile tea.

  "I hope that French cook is making sure that his meat is properly browned before he feeds you," the housekeeper said, with a look of concern to Katherine, "For I know what they're like, with their blue beef and frogs legs."

  Katherine's stomach lurched again at the mental image Mary had conveyed and she sipped meekly at her tea until the nausea subsided.

  "I cannot fathom what it was," she said distractedly, "But everything is making my stomach turn, the thought and smell of things is so unsettling."

  "I wonder what could have caused it," Mary said in reply, her voice sounding mysterious and her eyes dancing.

  "Perhaps just the weather," Katherine responded distractedly.

  In order to divert her mind away from her churning stomach, Katherine enquired after Mary's health and the general running of the house. She had missed Mary, when she had first moved to Elsmore House, and had wanted to bring her with her, but she saw now that the housekeeper was enjoying her new position as de facto mistress of Tilney Street. To try and uproot her for Katherine's own selfish needs was unthinkable, and it was comforting to know that Mary was happy.

  Once they had finished chatting, Katherine left for Elsmore House. For the first time in almost a week, she and Michael had no plans for the evening, and Katherine was looking forward to a night at home.