“That’s the benefit of being a duke, is it not? To do absolutely nothing except enjoy the spoils of estate managers’ labors.”
Only a half lie. Drake’s mother had served as head of the household since his father’s death ten years ago, giving him a chance to attend Oxford, enjoy his Grand Tour, and sow his oats before returning home to rule the roost. Even before that, he was positive his mother ran the household. Drake’s father had been far too old to lead the dukedom himself and had ensured his much younger wife would be happy doing exactly what she enjoyed doing best—running everyone else’s life.
Drake knew he really should take more of an interest, especially with a new wife in tow, but he could worry about that later. His priorities were set on far more important aspects of life, like bedding this beauty.
“What do you do with your time then?” she asked.
“All manner of amusements. Admire beautiful women, fence with Winston, play at truth-saying and peacemaking among the Northumberland rabble, enjoy billiards after supping, spend copious amounts of time with Sebastian, and sleep until noon. Oh, did I mention admire beautiful women?” He punctuated his question with a wink.
“I see.” She didn’t look impressed. Her luscious lips set in a grim line.
What did she expect life would be like? All work and no play? Perhaps for the tenantry, but not for the nobility, not for him.
“I’m convinced you’re teasing me. Now, be serious. I would like to spend the drive discovering what interests we share. Do you, by chance, enjoy music?” The grim line twitched into a feigned smile.
“There are any number of things I enjoy.”
“Oh?” Her eyebrows arched. “What do you enjoy?”
“Licking your lips.” He took a moment to admire them.
“Of all the inappropriate—harrumph!” The grim line of those heavenly lips pursed until the lips disappeared altogether. Pity.
“I don’t see why it would be inappropriate. We’re married.” Drake tried to dazzle her with a seductive smile, but she had none of it.
She was seriously testing his mood.
Their courtship had been such a whirlwind, they hadn’t gotten to know each other all that well, if he were being quite honest with himself. Be that as it may, he noted her behavior had shifted since the wedding.
The Charlotte during courtship had giggled at his flirtations and kissed him in dark corners. This woman, however, did none of those things, not since the exchange of vows, not since entering the carriage.
Now, she fidgeted, avoided eye contact, and found his humor crass. Where had his minx gone? Who was this woman he’d married?
Nothing of her behavior in London had led him to believe her a prude. He never would have married a prude. She certainly was giving him the cold shoulder now. Either she was nervous, or….
She had only wanted his title.
Had it all been a show? All the flirtation. All the attraction. Feigned? Had he been duped?
He would chalk up her behavior to nerves, at least for now. He refused to follow the thought that he’d been tricked into marriage for his title.
With a straight face, an expression he rarely used, he answered her question forthright. “Yes, Charlotte, I enjoy music. Are you familiar with William Shield or Johann Franz Xaver Sterkel? I’m rather fond of them. I would love nothing more than to hear you play Sterkel.”
She blushed pleasingly, revealing a glimpse of the minx he’d so admired. This was more like it!
“If you would like, but I don’t know Sterkel’s work. I could play Mozart or Piccinni, instead, if that would please you. I’m not familiar with Shield, either. Isn’t he affiliated with the opera? I can’t recall he’s written for pianoforte.”
“He composes comic opera, in fact. I highly esteem him. I’ll ensure you’re better acquainted with him.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I can’t say I’m familiar with musical comedy. It sounds vulgar.”
He tried again with his seductive smile, always a favorite with the ladies. “Wholly vulgar. Steaming with vulgarity. I count down the minutes until I can show you how vulgar.”
Her nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed. Turning to look at the window instead of him, she ended the conversation.
With so many mixed signals, he fretted. She had been all hot in London, and now she was mostly cold with only teasing glimpses of affectionate blushes and demure smiles. He didn’t care one bit for the grim expressions, the scolding, or the scowling.
Damnation.
After all their flirting in London, he had the distinct impression he’d been duped into marrying a prude who wanted nothing except his title.
Chapter 2
The carriage came to a halt in time to break for a midday meal. A footman in ducal livery helped the Duchess of Annick descend the steps, for when Drake held out his arm for her, she declined. Without looking back to see if her husband followed, Charlotte marched towards the open door of the second carriage.
She remained mortified at his crudeness. The audacity of that man. The sheer impropriety!
Not once in London had he spoken to her in such a manner. He had flirted, yes, but never so, so, well, so. Married intimacy was a far cry from kisses in the shadows. And yet, that seemed to be all that was on his mind. She didn’t care to have the subject flaunted unabashedly, much less in front of someone else. Was Drake determined to humiliate her?
It was bad enough she worried about humiliating herself, but to have him openly embarrassing her was too much. Was he such an arrogant rake that he wished to mock her innocence? She didn’t often admit her sister was right, but she began to suspect her sister was right about him.
If he hadn’t been so dashing, she might have made a different choice. Not that she regretted her choice. At least not yet. But she certainly was having second thoughts.
As Charlotte approached the servant’s carriage, her lady’s maid, Beatrice, stepped out to greet her mistress.
“How is Captain Henry?” Charlotte inquired.
“Oh, he’s well. He sang for an hour before drifting to sleep. I was that glad he did. His Grace’s valet was none too pleased by the serenade.” Beatrice ushered Charlotte into the coach before taking her leave so her mistress could be alone with Captain Henry.
Charlotte climbed onto the bench to coddle her cockatoo. White plumage inside a gilded travel cage took up half the space of the carriage. The bird welcomed her with a squawk, laugh, and incessant bowing, his white and yellow crest rising to attention, the feathers so tall they tickled the top of the carriage.
“Hello there, handsome fellow!” Opening the cage door, she reached in to scratch his neck.
The soft down of his feathers offered a reassuring reminder of family. She needed him more than she expected, this symbol of home and normalcy, a reminder that before today, she hadn’t been a duchess. She had been plain Charlotte Trethow, a Cornish girl who loved to play the pianoforte and dance, not necessarily at the same time, of course.
Captain Henry arched his neck and puffed his chest so she could scratch his belly. Scooting herself closer to him, she realized only the seats in this carriage were padded. Even with the padded seat, she could feel the hard wood beneath. Poor Beatrice!
How dreadful to be a servant. While she didn’t know the first thing about being a duchess, she did know there was no need to travel in discomfort regardless of station. Her first order of business became clear—padded cushions and backrests in all carriages.
Despite the hard seating, she delayed her return to the merry wedding party of her husband and his cousin. Her stomach protested, growling rudely. Ignoring her hunger pains, she bit her lower lip and mulled. A whirlpool of confusion swirled in her heart. She may have returned his flirtation in London, but such had been innocent petting, nothing crass or vulgar.
Now, she would have to act on what th
e flirting had promised. He seemed too expectant, too eager to finish what they’d started, too rakeish. She didn’t think she could follow through to whatever end flirting led, especially not if Drake was going to make it a grand joke. What if she embarrassed herself? If he could woo her gently and privately, she might feel more confident. She was a right, proper ninny now.
If only she had spoken to her aunt about the wedding night, she would at least know what to expect. Now, she was wholly unprepared.
“How’s my favorite bird?” Drake said, breaking her reverie.
So deep in thought, she hadn’t heard his approach. She flushed over the direction of her thoughts.
“He’s faring well, but I think he missed me.” She rubbed Captain Henry’s belly as he bowed to Drake, crest rising.
“I meant you, Charlotte.” Drake reached up and caressed her cheek with the back of his gloved fingers.
Shying away from his touch and side stepping his comment with a titter, she said, “Ravenous! I’m always punctual about my meals, you know.”
“Not quite the answer I was hoping for.” Unperturbed, he returned his fingers to her cheek. “I noticed a garden next door. After our meal, would you take a turn in it with me?”
She could do nothing more than nod as he trailed his fingers along her neck, sending a warm thrill down her spine. Yes, more wooing, less verbal vulgarity. Her eyes fluttered closed as the soft fabric of his glove traced her collarbone.
His hand didn’t linger.
With a flourish, Drake stepped away from her and pulled a gold snuffbox from his coat. He delighted in a pinch. His attention diverted, she composed herself from the direction of her thoughts and his disconcerting touch.
After helping her from the carriage, leaving her cockatoo in the capable hands of the maid who was waiting some distance away, Drake escorted his bride to the inn.
Footmen, grooms, and servants bustled to and fro to exchange horses. Charlotte knew she should feel proud to be on his arm. Any woman would give her left foot to be in her place. He was a duke and positively stunning in form-fitting buckskin breeches, Hessian boots with gold tassels, embroidered waistcoat and traveling coat, and an impressively knotted cravat signifying a man of impeccable taste.
She merely felt inadequate.
Too low of station, not pretty enough, not trained to be a duchess, and certainly not trained to be a lover. What had possessed him to marry her?
As if sensing her sideways glance, he queried, “Enjoying being my wife?”
“I hardly know. Am I supposed to be a noble duchess, a flirt, an obedient wife, or plain me?” She blanched after the words tumbled out.
“What a question! Try worrying less and enjoying the day more.” He answered with a light-hearted laugh and pinch to her chin.
Did he take nothing seriously? Drake was so careless with words, she wondered if he had bothered to learn anything about her during their courtship or if he’d married the first girl he met because he needed a wife.
She feared the latter.
Instead of responding, she listened to the crunch of gravel beneath their shoes.
The luncheon proved a satisfying albeit quiet meal. Charlotte satiated her grumbling stomach with cold meats and confectionaries before Drake directed her into the garden next door, leaving the cousin to his own devices.
The garden, a quaint patch of wilderness, held wildflowers, climbing vines of clematis and wisteria, and stone benches beneath shaded arbors. She immediately busied herself inspecting the fragrant wisteria blooms.
Not long did she have before Drake’s hand pressed the small of her back, smoothing the muslin of her dress as he encircled her waist with a firm arm. She tensed, her imagination leaping to his expectations for the wedding night.
He turned her towards him. With his free hand tucked under her chin, Drake lifted her face to his. His height blocked the sun, casting his features in shadow.
Before she could protest, he leaned down and closed his mouth over hers. Moist lips melded, a sultry familiarity in his kiss. He tightened his embrace, pressing her against his chest.
After the initial shock, she let him. She even snaked a hand up his chest and around his neck to pull him solidly to her. For a moment, she was back in London, hidden from prying eyes down a dark path at Vauxhall, exploring new sensations with an irresistible man, no pressure to go beyond flirting, no expectations, no worry of humiliation, just the exhilaration of the moment, the taste of the forbidden. How delicious to be kissed for the first time by a rake.
His tongue flicked her bottom lip, then tapped her mouth, requesting admittance. Her lips parted in invitation. Circling his tongue with hers, she tasted ham and brandy, a pleasant mixture, heady when paired with the almond scent of his pomade. His throaty moan vibrated her lips, sending a flood of warmth between her legs.
Drake shifted his weight so his hips pressed into hers. Something hard prodded her abdomen. Shocked, she gasped and pushed against him, struggling for freedom.
Raised eyebrows questioned her as she loosened his grip to create distance.
“What’s wrong? Why are you pulling away?” he implored, reaching for her to resume the embrace.
“Servants are everywhere, and we could be seen. It isn’t proper.” However true, she didn’t dare tell him her real reason for quitting his kiss.
She averted her eyes from the curious object weighing against the front of his breeches. There was no way she would let him near her with that. Kissing was pleasant, but that was absurd, embarrassing, distasteful even.
“No one would dare interrupt me. I’ll kiss my wife anywhere I please. Now, come here.” He grabbed her roughly and pulled her against him, kissing her neck hungrily.
A moment of panic seized her. Desperate to be free of the controlling embrace and be away from the thing that poked at her stomach, she pushed against his shoulders. His grasp was unyielding.
When he nipped at her ear, she kicked his shin.
“I will not be treated like a harlot. Unhand me!”
In an instant, she realized her mistake.
An unmistakable pain reflected in his eyes, not from her kick, but from her reaction. She hadn’t meant to insult him. How could she explain to him, a man of such reputed experience, her fear of intimacy? However much she enjoyed his kisses, she was terrified of anything more.
“I thought you were attracted to me, Charlotte. You welcomed my affections before, but now spurn them. What’s changed?”
“I, I just, I’m, well, we need to be on the road again or we’ll be off schedule. It’s important we stay on schedule.”
Without a backward glance, she scurried out of the garden and to the carriage, not daring admit to him her unease at this new role she didn’t know how to play.
Legs stretched across the thread-bare ottoman, Drake enjoyed a savory pinch of snuff before continuing his oration.
“I tell you, man, you’re lovelorn. You’ve been in this foul mood since we left London, and I’d rather you not be Lord Grumpy for the remainder of the trip. If I had to wager a bet, and I never lose a bet, I’d say you’re heartbroken. You’re woebegone, forlorn, morose, dejected—.”
Sebastian Lancaster, Earl of Roddam, held up a hand and opened his mouth as if to speak. Drake waited for the heartsick wretch to refute him, but his cousin said nothing.
Drake continued. “If you liked Charlotte’s sister so much, you should have done something about it. You’ll never find anyone else like her let alone anyone who’ll tolerate your moodiness.”
“I don’t need your opinion.” Sebastian snapped at Drake, finally defending himself. “I have no wish to marry. Never have, never will. Besides, I barely noticed her.”
“Your lies stink, old man. I can smell them from here.” He studied his cousin casually, reading the longing and regret etched in Sebastian’s features. “You’re
besotted.”
Drake knew they were both enchanted by the Trethow sisters. Drake just happened to be the only one willing to act on the affection; although, he likely wouldn’t have acted so hastily if his mother hadn’t commanded he bring home a bride after this Season.
Frankly, he had run out of time. Charlotte had been introduced to him just as he was losing hope of finding a plausible candidate, one month before the end of the Season, long enough for a week of flowers and rides in Hyde Park followed by the appropriate three weeks of banns.
Mother had made it clear that at three and thirty he needed to find a wife and get on with the business of begetting an heir before his soldier retired, which humored him to no end since his own father had sired Drake’s sister at the ripe old age of three and sixty. As far as Drake was concerned, he had all the time in the world.
Nevertheless, Mother’s word was law. If she wanted a bride for him, a bride he would have. Had he not chosen one in London, one would have been chosen for him, and that would never do. During the month of being thrown together with Charlotte, his hopes had risen they were a good match. She had seemed, at the time anyway, enchanting.
He shook the memories from his head.
Sebastian had no such mandate, and as such, had the freedom to lose his chance at love from pigheadedness. Sheer pigheadedness.
Sebastian rested his forearms against his thighs and stared at the wooden floor of the inn. “Shouldn’t you be with your bride, oh wise one in the ways of women?”
“You wound me with your sarcasm, cousin. Wound me to my very core.” Drake placed hand over heart. “She’s with her maid, preparing for my grand entrance into the chamber of love.” Draining his brandy in one motion, he said, “I don’t think I’m foxed enough to face her. She makes me nervous, man.”
“You? Nervous about a woman? Now whose lie stinks?” Sebastian reached for his wine glass, swirling it before setting it back on the table, liquid untouched.
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