by Jen YatesNZ
‘Where’s my wife?’
‘At Springwoods, I believe, Your Grace.’
All the air left his chest and he almost dropped to his knees on the polished marble floor.
‘At Springwoods? Why?’
‘I don’t rightly know, Your Grace. But she seemed upset after Lady Parmenter visited. She ordered the carriage and left for Springwoods that same afternoon.’
‘Lady Parmenter visited? And the Duchess was upset? When exactly?’
The questions fired from his brain like bullets. Something was dreadfully wrong.
‘The day after the Duchess arrived here, Your Grace.’
His immediate instinct was to order his curricle and drive straight to Springwoods himself. But sanity was slowly returning.
Lady Parmenter again. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this whole affair. He didn’t really like the way his thoughts were turning, in fact, he’d been staving off thinking in this particular direction ever since he’d realized Aunt Gussy, his mother-in-law, was involved up to her elegant, conniving neck.
Somehow he must contain himself until morning.
‘Bring me up a whisky toddy, Grigg.’
‘Certainly, Your Grace.’
Normally he couldn’t stand whisky, but his grandfather had always sworn by a whisky toddy to induce a good night’s sleep. In the interests of a few hours of oblivion he’d suffer the taste.
This time as he climbed the stairs, he felt every one of his thirty-six years and the eighteen hours since he’d set out that morning, most of them spent in the saddle.
…
He was banging the knocker on his mother-in-law’s front door well before the polite hour for calling. He wasn’t feeling particularly polite. Lomas, Lady Parmenter’s butler, made no demur.
‘Good morning, Your Grace. We’ve been expecting your visit,’ he said, while deftly arranging Dom’s hat and gloves on the hallstand. ‘If you’ll just step into the morning room, Your Grace, I’ll advise Lady Parmenter of your presence. Would you like a tea tray sent in, Your Grace?’
A brandy would be more to the point, Dom thought, but merely smiled grimly and refused the tea. He was filled with a black fury at wasting over a week haring up to Derbyshire on a quest that Aunt Gussy could have answered.
He loved the woman; she’d been his mother’s best friend. But, God dammit! He’d been gone nine blasted days in which time Sheri had decamped to Springwoods when she’d said she’d wait for him in London—and Grigg had intimated she’d been upset.
‘Lady Parmenter requests you attend her upstairs, Your Grace.’
He followed the butler up the wide oak staircase and into a room that was clearly Aunt Gussy’s boudoir. Hadleigh stood brooding at the window.
‘Hadleigh! What the devil—?’
The butler quietly shut the door behind him, and Hadleigh turned. It was plain his attention was not on anything beyond the windows.
‘Morning, Your Grace. Gussy will join us presently. And if you’re wondering, she’s agreed to marry me. Would’ve done the deed already but we’d like yourself and Sheri present when we do. But at our age, can’t see the point in waiting on the niceties.—You may call me ‘Papa’.’
A wry grin and a wicked twinkle in the older man’s blue eyes made him appear younger than Dom had always surmised.
‘Congratulations—Papa!’ he said with an answering grin, the novelty of the event momentarily distracting him from the reason for his visit. He offered a brief handclasp then stepped back.
‘Was it necessary to have me removed from London so you could enjoy what I have not—for the last nine days? Do you know why Sheri was upset after her mother’s visit—enough to send her into hiding at Springwoods? I’ve been to fucking Derbyshire and back to Bruton Street where I expected to find my wife—with whom I have spent exactly two nights since we were married`—and she’s gone up to Newmarket—presumably because a visit from her mother upset her!’
He’d managed to keep a cap on his temper for days, wasn’t even sure he was making sense, but Hadleigh’s smugly sated countenance was the breaking point.
‘I rode all the way up there and back on a quest Aunt Gussy could’ve answered for me. Should have answered—right back when I visited her that day you first commissioned me for it! I called on her—told her—’
‘Steady, lad.’ Hadleigh said. ‘Gussy will tell you what you want to know—though obviously I already know—now. It’s not going to be easy for her—or you.’
‘Not easy for me?’ Dom stormed. ‘I wouldn’t say any of this has been easy! And if you already know, why don’t you tell me?’
‘Because it’s Augusta’s story to tell. You might as well take a seat, lad.’
Lad. Boy. Hadleigh had always addressed him as if he were still in short coats! Now he’d have the dubious honor of addressing him as ‘Papa’! Fitting! Still fuming, he dropped to a small, elegant settee, only to come back to his feet as Augusta entered the room. Her short curls peeped from beneath a dainty lace cap; she was enveloped in a royal blue velvet dressing robe and wore matching velvet slippers on her feet.
His gaze skimmed all that, coming to rest on her face. Her eyes and cheeks were puffy from crying. Two spots of bright color stood out along her cheekbones and her hands twisted restlessly at the sash of her robe.
He’d never seen anything remotely like this version of Aunt Gussy.
What the hell had happened to Sylvaine Walsingham and what did Lady Parmenter—Sylvaine’s great aunt—have to do with it?
‘Good morning, Aunt Gussy—er—Mama. I believe congratulations are in order.’
For a moment she just stared at him, her blue eyes brimming. Then she inclined her head and whispered her thanks. Sinking onto a chair, she reached up a hand for Hadleigh, who was instantly at her side.
Dom settled back onto the settee, even though he knew he’d prefer to be pacing.
‘I believe you could’ve saved me an unnecessary trip north,’ he growled, unable to keep the harsh tones of condemnation from his voice.
Augusta’s face crumpled, but biting her lip, she fought to control it.
‘I’m sorry, Dominic. I’ve been quite wicked. At least—Govatt tells me it was wicked. I just wanted to protect Sheri.’
‘Sheri? What has she got to do with it?’
What the hell had the woman done?
‘You—haven’t—guessed?’ Augusta asked slowly. ‘Govatt was quite certain you’d have some inkling of it by now, with your superior intellect and sleuthing abilities.’
‘Guessed—what?’ he snapped. ‘Can we just get this cleared up so I can go and retrieve my wife?’
Augusta looked helplessly to Hadleigh, who looked directly at Dom and said, ‘Sheri is Sylvaine. I really thought you’d have discovered that by now.’
Breathing suspended, the stillness was intense. Then Dom erupted from his seat and strode across to the window. Duped again.
Turning back to Augusta, he demanded, ‘You didn’t think I needed to know that before I married her? Did she know?’
Augusta bit her lip and shook her head, then burst out, ‘No one was supposed to know! Ever! That terrible scandal would never have been forgotten. It would’ve followed her all her life. As a Dearing, raised in the house of Parmenter, she was blameless!’
‘You cannot hold Sheri responsible for the sins of her parents?’
‘Of course not!’ Augusta rallied, her voice becoming stronger. ‘But society would. Why do you think the young Duke of Halcombe is rarely seen in London, or any of his family? The ton does not forget!’
‘I can’t believe you didn’t suspect—once you’d married the chit,’ Hadleigh said, his bushy brows pulled together in a frown.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The birth mark—across her chest. Augusta assures me you couldn’t miss it.’
The words could well have been an axe chopping him off at the knees as the scattered pieces of the puzzle magically reassembled
to form a picture so obvious he’d forever doubt the sleuthing abilities of which he’d been so proud. He’d known of the birthmark, but had deemed it would only factor when proof was required, not as a tool in the search. Sylvaine was twenty-three and he could scarcely ask every woman of that age whether she bore such a mark. It took some moments for him to steady his limbs and settle his breathing.
His beautiful wife with her high-necked gowns and demands they make love in the dark.
‘I haven’t yet—been allowed—to see it,’ he ground out.
Ignoring Hadleigh’s startled eyebrows, he strode from the window to the door while the other two watched in silence.
‘Astonbury?’ he barked.
‘I’ll deal with Astonbury,’ Hadleigh promised.
Minutes later he’d thrown himself up on Suliman and was riding out of London. Pity help anyone who got in his way.
…
It was days since Dom had ridden off to Derbyshire on a mission to track down—her. His wife. She couldn’t imagine the state of his temper or how he’d behave when he finally returned. If he ever did. What if he demanded an annulment of their marriage?
She wouldn’t think about that, she’d told herself several times a day, when the achingly painful thought crept into her mind again and again. Could she count on his honor? Perhaps. Did she want to be married—to a man who felt duped, trapped into marriage—with a total stranger? For was that not what Augusta had done?
Was nothing and no one as she’d thought them to be?
The only person who never changed, whose every thought and action could be predicted, who could be depended on to sustain and support, was Maggie. Now, as Sheri stared at the small canvas on the easel before her and the soft-sketched strokes of her own completely nude back, the hint of a lushly curved breast and nipple and the long line of her throat as she arched her head back as if enjoying her lover’s touch, she thought how Maggie had goaded her out of the terrible empty place she’d inhabited for several days.
She loaded her brush with the base tint, a warmer flesh tone than she’d used in any of the previous works, and began rhythmically applying it, bringing feminine curves into greater relief against the darker background.
The horses had drawn her out of the darkness first. Little by little, after full days riding, grooming and training the animals she loved, and lengthy discussions on techniques and training programs with Mackey, her sense of self had returned and she’d realized she still was who she’d always been. Mama and Papa were still Mama and Pap, in fact if not by blood, and she was grateful. Her life would have been quite different had she remained with her gambler father after her mother’s death.
Absently she dipped the brush again, her artist’s brain working automatically regardless of the dark trails her mind wandered.
She wasn’t ready to face Mama yet—though she had sent off a note apologizing for her behavior and promising to return and talk—sometime.
This morning an anonymous note had arrived with the mail. Maggie had found her brooding at the window and slyly wondered what would happen if Dom put his sleuthing talents to work on discovering S.P.R. Woods. The series had been building towards a climax, which Dom would pursue if she failed to deliver.
Climaxes were his specialty, he’d murmured at some time during their second night as husband and wife.
The damning piece of paper had crackled evilly as she’d crushed it even smaller between her fingers and stormed into her studio where even Maggie was forbidden to follow. It was the only place she could be certain of solitude. Tossing the balled up note onto the table, she’d stood staring at the empty canvas, waiting on the easel.
Trying not to think about the ugly message in the note, she’d set her artist’s eye to visualizing the pose she should adopt for the final painting. That quickly she’d been drawn into the mood, stripped off her clothes, draped the length of rose silk low about her hips and begun studying angles in the mirrors. Thinking about the climaxes Dom had given her had brought heat to her cheeks and a sensuality to the sketch strokes on the canvas.
The act of painting in itself was cathartic and with each stroke of sable on canvas, understanding for what Mama had done eased through her. She also knew a growing hunger for Dom’s presence, a burgeoning fear he might not come to fetch her from Springwoods at all; might simply leave her there and annul their marriage on the grounds of her false identity.
For, what need had he of her if the information penned in the scrap of paper taunting her from the table bore any semblance of truth?
There was no doubt the anonymous note had been penned by one with poisonous intent and it wasn’t difficult to imagine who that might be. It would’ve been easy to dismiss the scandalous suggestion carefully printed on the plain but expensive paper if she hadn’t, somewhere within the last two years, heard whispers of the ‘Matrix Club’ whose purposes and members were shrouded in anonymity and secrecy.
And she’d never know a climax at his clever hands again; nor at any other hands, for even if the scurrilous words held any truth or not, she’d take no other to her bed. She’d only ever wanted Dom—and that before she even knew what it was she truly wanted from him.
Now she did, no other would do.
Master of Virgins.
‘You will call me Dom, or Dominic—or Master,’ he’d said—in the carriage—the night after the announcement of their engagement at the Esterhazys’ soirée! Even now, the memory of that command, smoky with innuendo, sent ripples of fire through her blood.
The brush became a living extension of her hand, stroking paint onto the canvas—as if—her fingers caressed Dom’s warm skin—for the last time—
Her breath shuddered in her chest with the ambiguity of her feelings. It was obvious the intention of the writer of that note had been to cause an irreparable rift in the new-minted marriage of the Duke of Wolverton. But, to her own astonishment, the insinuation had the opposite effect on her. She must be abnormal to be deeply excited by the notion of Dom as an expert in the initiation of virgins—for she could only guess that was what the title implied. Her body was deeply appreciative of the expertise he’d brought to her initiation. He’d made it impossible to deny him anything; even now, when she should have been rampant with jealousy. Whatever had gone before meant nothing. He’d chosen her, married her, professed to want only her. He’d mastered her, initiated her—
There! Staring back at her from the mirror, was the look she needed for the final portrait.
But she’d have to hold it in her mind for she couldn’t afford to dwell on how he’d made her feel if she wanted to get this painting finished and ensure he need never go searching out the artist.
For if he found the true identity of S. P. R. Woods, then surely he’d deem her unfit to be his wife.
A duchess did not paint nudes.
So many reasons he might reject her, when all her body longed for was his touch. The rose silk, all she wore and that only low about her hips, now drifted unheeded to drape from the seat to the floor. Studying the soft curve of her back in the carefully arranged mirrors, she imagined Dom’s hands at the willowy indent at her waist; his touch, even in fantasy, creating the magical heat flowing through her body and causing a burning response between her legs that heightened the color on her already flushed cheeks. It was difficult to keep her critical mind focused on the subtle differences she must portray in this final portrait, but that soft wash of color was definitely one of them. Could she show that curve of her cheek without giving away her identity?
Could she even continue to paint when all she wanted to do was lie back on the bed and give herself to Dom in every way he demanded? Her fingers stole to the smudges of darker pigmentation across her breasts. Was it even remotely possible he’d be able to see past the ugly discoloration to the perfectly rounded globes of her breasts?
He was sure to be in an absolute liver when he finally returned, knowing Augusta had kept her true identity from him, as well as because he�
�d had a totally unnecessary ride north, wasting well over a week of his time. She’d rarely seen him anything other than urbane, polite, and aloof—the epitome of the gentleman about town. But the man was human, and a Beresford, and with eyes as fiery green as his, there had to be times when temper got the better of him, however suppressed by politeness and society demands.
She squeezed her eyes shut and bit down hard on her lip to quell the bolt of panic ripping through her as she imagined the confrontation with her husband when he finally returned.
If he returned.
How would she go on if those two nights of marriage were all she was to have of him?
The sharp slam as the door was thrown back against the wall, startled her eyes open to find the object of her vivid fears towering behind her naked form. Seated with mirrors placed strategically to reflect her back view as her artist’s model and with enough outline to be totally damning on the canvas before her, not to mention her frontal image staring back at both of them from the mirror in front of her, her exposure was complete.
Breath, heartbeat, all animation was suspended as she stared back at him, rigid and powerful behind her.
As if vulcanized by the flaring green fire in his eyes, she could only stare, unable to decide which she should try to hide first, herself or the portrait—or the crumpled note she’d tossed onto the desk and which now lay just beyond her reach.
As if it wasn’t already too late to conceal any of them.
The only words that would form in her brain were ‘Master of Virgins’ and they reverberated, louder and louder, like a band of musicians marching, step by step, closer and closer. Just as the thought became a deafening roar in her head forcing her eyes to close tight again and her hands to rise in self-defense, his palms came to rest on her shoulders.
‘You—will—not hide yourself from me—ever again!’ he ground out, his voice filled with pain.
Her eyes shot open. Something in his voice—or his touch—snapped the shocked rigidity that had claimed her. She gazed up at him in the mirror as he took her hands that had automatically stolen up to cover her breasts. Holding them firmly down against her belly, he looked his fill.