He twirled the opener in his fingers, aware of the mesmerizing effect of the lamplight catching the brass blade. Married to a witch, and no one knew it. He wondered if Juliet would have changed her romantic ideas about his marriage had she known the truth. At first he told himself that she thought thus only because she was a woman, and naturally driven by emotion. But his behavior gave the lie to that excuse. Still, he was disturbed by her perception of his marriage. A love match, she’d implied.
He doubted if any Belmore marriage had ever been a love match. His parents’ certainly wasn’t. His father had made that clear at the same time he’d made clear that the Belmores were above that sort of drivel and that no son of his, and certainly not the heir, would let his life be mucked up by such foolishness. Then he’d taken Alec’s tutor aside and made certain that all future history lessons would revolve around the stupidity and dire outcome of love matches. He was to study the fallen kingdoms, lost wars, and vain politics that were the direct result of affairs of the heart.
Alec had learned that love led only to destruction. But he had also learned, and learned quickly, that the only way to win his father’s approval was to think like him, live like him, act like him. The lesson soon became a way of life.
Odd that he’d only recently learned his pride, too, could produce disastrous results. Without much more thought Alec realized he had done the one thing he’d so proudly warned Downe of: he had let emotion rule his actions. His hurried marriage was a direct result of wounded pride. He had married in haste because he was worried about what people might think. That was quite a weakness for the Duke of Belmore to admit to; it rated right up there with hiding his wife.
He turned the letter opener again, still mentally justifying his actions and trying to ease his guilt. His wife was a witch, something he had nothing to do with. He wondered if divine retribution was involved, if being wed to a witch was his punishment for using her. He had known when she gave him that first wide-eyed worshipful look that her heart was his to do with as he pleased. And in those circumstances, he had chosen to marry her, for his own convenience, knowing full well that she wouldn’t turn him down. It was a way to salvage his pride.
But his awareness of his actions was something he intended to carry to his grave. He didn’t want Joy to know he’d been so foolish as to give in to a weakness like wounded pride. Some part of him liked the way she adored him, took pride in fact that he could fill her dreams. He didn’t want her scorn. He wanted her respect, perhaps even more than he wanted respect from the ton.
For the first time in his life his name and title, his role in life and society, had nothing to do with how someone felt about him. She called him her Alec—not her duke, her husband, or anything else. Just herAlec. His dukedom was not the driving force between them. His wealth and bloodline and title didn’t matter, and oddly enough neither did her heritage or her witchcraft. They were bound by something deep within, uncontrolled, something he couldn’t name, but knew existed. And it scared the bloody hell out of him.
“Belly to belly. Back to back. This is the way I cook the rack . . . . ”
Joy stood in the doorway of the kitchen watching Hungan John spit a side of lamb. He set the spit into place, then wound the jack and went back to the counter, singing in his deep voice a nonsensical two-quarter song, his long braid swaying behind him. The two kitchen maids had taken up the beat, and one pounded her fist rhythmically into a mound of bread dough while the other chopped onions in the same two-quarter time.
Hungan John finished the song, then took a deep drink from a bottle and started anew. “I work all day on a drop of rum! Dah, dah, dah, dah, dah-dah, dah, dum!” He lifted the bottle, but stopped mid-motion, suddenly spotting her. “You Grace.” Ignoring the maids’ startled gasps, he made a gallant grinning bow, his teeth sparkling like the ring in his ear.
“Please,” Joy said, raising her hand. “Don’t let me interrupt your work. I was a wee bit hungry.”
“No wonder. You Grace ate nothing this day.” His black eyes gave her a shrewd, knowing look. He walked over to a table in the corner and pulled out a chair. “You Grace sit here. Hungan John fix you up good.”
She sat, and he began to clear off a work surface, grabbing the bottle. He eyed the inch of rum at the bottom, drank it down, and plucked up the cork, and rammed it into the bottle neck, then hooked the bottle to a chain on his wide belt. He caught her look and winked, giving the bottle a pat. “Best bottle. Strong cork.”
He laughed and laughed as if that were the best of jests. She watched him move around the kitchen, singing out orders to the maids, who responded rhythmically. A few minutes later there was enough food to feed the whole household sitting on the table.
“Just a wee slice of bread and butter would have been sufficient.”
“You Grace keep eating like the hummingbird, will soon look like the hummingbird. You miss breakfast, you miss tea. You won’t have supper till late tonight.” He set a glass of milk on the table. “Here, drink this.”
She sipped, and her eyes opened wide. “This isn’t milk.”
He nodded. “It be coconut milk with pineapple and rum. Magic.” He winked at her. “Drink up.”
The concoction was truly delicious. She drank the first glass and two more while she ate. An hour later, she wasn’t sure if it was the strength of that old elm tree or the food in her stomach that made her almost float upstairs, humming a catchy little tune, another magical rum drink in her hand. Suddenly things didn’t seem quite so bleak.
Polly dressed her in a lovely gown of midnight blue silk trimmed with pearls and glass beads, and she wore slippers of blue with glass heels. Tonight there was no required hoop as in the court dress. She felt light-headed as she waltzed around the room before Polly’s delighted eyes. She had just donned her white gloves when a footman knocked to say the carriage and His Grace were waiting below. Polly quickly fastened the set of sapphires and pearls that Alec had sent up earlier, then left to fetch her reticule.
Joy stared at her reflection. Yes, once again she looked like a duchess. She raised her glass and finished off her fourth coconut fruit drink. She could easily have had another, but there was little time left. She licked the sweet foam off her upper lip and looked at herself again, her hand touching the cold jeweled necklace.
She assumed Alec had sent them as an order for her to wear them. A wee part of her rebelled at that and if it weren’t for the prince she would have refused to wear the jewels. There had been no note, and no husband to fasten them on her and end the task with a passionate kiss, as he had the night before. She turned away from the mirror and the memories, and the room spun. She gripped the back of a chair and took a couple of deep breaths. The room stopped.
My, my, my, she thought. Maybe I overdid the tree hugging. She shook her head, then frowned for a dizzy moment. Mean old Alec wormed his way back into her scattered thoughts.
She looked into the mirror and didn’t like the face that stared back. She looked gloomy. She found her Scots pride, and stuck up her chin, staring down her nose at her reflection. Better, she thought. Much better. Now, having spent so much time thinking about her situation, she decided it was time for action. No more nice witch. All she’d gotten for being nice was a broken heart.
Alec had asked her to marry him. She hadn’t forced him. In fact, she had tried very hard to say no, but he wouldn’t let her. He had wanted to marry her. Of that she was certain. But why? That was what had her thinking, and she intended to find out why before this night was over. That was her goal.
Juliet might have his heart, but Joy was his wife—a wife who knew her husband had used her. It had been a painful thing to accept, and she had gone through all the stages of mourning—the tears, the hurt, the shame that made her ache.
But now she felt angry, because Alec had done her such an injustice. A good part of her wanted to pelt him with snowballs again—two or three hundred to start with.
One of the few things that set fire to
her anger was injustice—like the poor post laddies at the coaching inn being forced to breathe smoke, like pitiful old Forbes being thrown out after years of faithful service, and like the poor clumsy Letitia Hornsby being subjected to an obnoxious man’s public ridicule. Joy was now in the same predicament. And for the first time in a long time she was angry in her own behalf. Good and angry.
The Belmore carriage edged along behind the crush of conveyances in front of the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden. Alec watched his wife with thoughtful eyes. She was quiet, unusually so. Last night after dinner, she had told him with gleeful anticipation that she had never been to the theater, so he’d expected her to have her face pressed to glass, trying to see the many lanterns that lit the gardens, or squirming with anxiety and asking him every two minutes if they were there yet. Instead she sat stiffly, her hand occasionally gripping the armrest. This cool woman across from him was the perfect duchess, but she was not Scottish.
“Are you feeling unwell?” he asked.
She turned to face him, blinked twice, and nodded, only to take a deep breath and turn back. Her face held no animation, just a comely flush. He’d asked her something. She had barely answered, just a clipped yes or no. She reminded him of all the Englishwomen he had known, and he didn’t like it.
The carriage stopped, and a footman opened the door. Alec stepped out and turned to help her down. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. She just placed her hand in his, allowed him to assist her, then snatched her hand back so abruptly that she wobbled and almost fell. She made a big to-do over shaking out her skirt and never once looked at him.
His curiosity was piqued. He gripped her elbow and guided her inside. He’d seen a flash of anger in her eyes only twice—once when he confronted her about what she did to Beau Brummell, and again just a second ago. He moved to where the wide staircase to the private boxes was roped off and three royal footmen and two others stood guard. On sight a footman released the rope, handed him a printed program, and led them up the stairs.
Twice she almost fell, and only Alec’s arm had stopped her. When he started to question her, she had stuck her chin up regally and continued on as if nothing had happened. At the top landing, he paused and pointed out Rossi’s statue of Shakespeare atop a pedestal of rare yellow marble. She gave it a cursory glance and walked on. A few minutes later they greeted the prince and were seated at the front of the box—in the seats of honor at the prince’s right hand.
Silently they settled in. After a moment she finally deigned to look at him and asked, “What play are we seeing?”
He hadn’t even thought to ask or to look, so he glanced at the program and felt all the blood drain from his face. He stared at the title in disbelief.
The word Macbeth stared back at him.
He didn’t groan. He didn’t think. He didn’t do anything but say, “Shakespeare.”
She made a face, then turned back to the stage. The prince leaned over and said, “My lady duchess, being Scottish, you will surely enjoy this production. We have persuaded Sarah Siddons to return for a special performance of her most acclaimed role, Lady Macbeth.”
A second later the curtain rose to whistles and jeers and shouts from the noisy crowd. An actor walked onstage and shouted, “Scotland! An open place.”
Prinny smiled and nodded at her, and Alec watched closely for a sign of her reaction. The requisite crash of thunder and flashes of lightning streaked across the stage, and the witches entered.
This time Alec did groan. He’d forgotten how haggily garbed and made up they always were. The prince with his impeccably rotten timing said, “See there! The Scottish witches. Ugly as sin, ain’t they?” Everyone around him nodded. Everyone except Joy.
She turned from the prince and took another long look at the warted faces, at the wild straggly white hair, at the ill-fitting black gowns, at the sheer ugliness of the Three Weird Sisters, and slowly turned a pair of angry green eyes toward Alec.
He leaned over and warned, “Remember who you are and whom you are with.” He gave a quick nod toward the regent. For the next few acts, she watched the play. He didn’t. He watched her. She appeared to accept the play, stiffening only when the witches plodded onto the stage to deliver their dire predictions, and he felt somewhat relieved, until one of the later acts.
He should have taken the thunder as warning. The witches came out, hovered around a bubbling cauldron, and chanted, “Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble.”
A moment later the cauldron skidded across the stage, leaving the witches with stirring sticks in hand and stunned expressions on their faces. He had to look twice to assure himself he’d seen it. The witches exchanged confused looks, then ran over to the cauldron and went on shouting ingredients and pretending to drop them inside. “Scale of dragon!”
A column of flame burst from the cauldron, causing the witches to shriek and back away. It continued to bubble and steam and sputter.
“Tooth of wolf!” the most stalwart witch continued, standing back an extra few feet before pretending to toss a tooth into the pot.
A wolf howl echoed louder than the thunder in the theater’s rafters. Alec whipped his head around to stare at his wife. She looked innocent. Her hands were folded in her lap and her eyes were narrowed, but she was staring straight at the stage.
By the time Alec turned back to the stage, Macbeth had entered saying, “How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags!”
The actor took two steps and tripped over thin air, landing face down on the stage. The audience gasped and Alec grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “Stop it”
She gave him a false smile. “Stop what?”
“You know what.”
Macbeth managed to regain his composure and shouted, “Though you untie the winds and let them fight—”
Joy coughed and a blast of air whipped across the stage, forcing all the actors to grab a hold of the cauldron. Wigs blew off, costumes were plastered against their bodies, and props skittered around like leaves in a whirlwind.
“I said stop it!” Alec said through his teeth.
The wind died suddenly.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” she said.
Macbeth straightened his clothing with a sharp tug and jammed his wig atop his head. He stood straight, arms in the air, and said, “Though castles topple—”
The set behind him clattered to the ground in a cloud of dust. The audience began to laugh.
Alec grabbed her just as Macbeth finished his lines in a whisper, his worried gaze darting left then right.
A witch cried out, “Pour in sow’s blood!” He felt Joy wiggle, then giggle, and he looked down at the stage. Three pigs waddled onstage to join the fray, snorting and wallowing, knocking over the cauldron and snorting around Macbeth.
“Is that what you meant.” She giggled against his chest.
“Damnation, woman,” he whispered tightly, his arm clamped viselike around her. He shifted so he could speak to the prince. “My wife is ill, Your Highness.”
The enthralled prince was laughing so hard he barely looked at them. “Yes, yes, whatever, Belmore.” He dismissed them with a wave of his hand.
But by then Alec was dragging her out of the box, doing his best not to kill her with his bare hands. He pulled her over near the statue of Shakespeare and he shook her. “What the devil were you doing?”
“Teaching them a lesson about Scottish witches.” She smiled, then hiccupped, whipping a hand over her mouth and looking at him through eyes that held only mischief.
He studied her. The gleam in her eyes did it. She hiccupped again. He sniffed her mouth. “Have you been drinking?”
“Coconut milk,” she answered. “‘Tis delicious with a wee”—held up two fingers to show him how much—“spot of rum.”
She was sotted. As if to confirm his conclusion, she hiccupped again, then fluttered her eyelashes at him. At the sound of another round of laughter from the theater, she gave a wave
of her hand. “They seem to like it.”
Livid, he scooped her up in his arms—a gesture that held no romance, but only the desperate need to get her the hell out of there—and he stormed away.
“Mr. Shakespeare,” she called out over his shoulder. “Double, double toil and trouble!”
“Be quiet,” he ordered and strode toward the stairs, never seeing the warts break out on the statue’s face.
The bedchamber door banged against the wall, eliciting a healthy scream from Polly, who was snoozing near the fire. Despite the fact that Joy was still in her husband’s arms and still a tad tipsy, she gave Polly a little wave.
“Leave us. We need to speak privately,” Alec said, glowering at the room in general.
She looked at the wide-eyed maid. “You’ll have to excuse His Grace. He’s a wee bit upset.” Then she grinned up at him. “Aren’t you?”
His neck turned purple. He spun around, glared at the awestruck maid, and shouted, “Out!”
As Polly scrambled out of the room, Joy waved a hand around dramatically. “‘Out, damned spot! Out, I say!’”
Through clenched teeth he said, “Shut. Up.”
“Still no sense of humor, Alec.” She shook her head, but stopped when she looked up and saw that he had two of those arrogantly noble Belmore noses. She squinted to try to focus her eyes.
“There was not one wit of humor in what you did tonight.”
“The audience thought so,” she argued, pressing one finger to her lips in thought. “I distinctly remember them laughing. I felt the pigs were a nice touch. My magic worked rather well, don’t you think? Perhaps it was the rum.”
He tossed her on the bed.
She bounced and giggled, staring up at his angry face with a delighted grin of mischief. “That was fun, Alec. Let’s do it, again. I can put my arms around your purple neck, and you can throw me on the bed. Then we’ll count how many times I bounce. I’ll let you do the counting, since you’ve had so much practice.”
With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection Page 34