DukeAndEnchantress_PGolden-eBooks

by Golden, Paullett

  To antagonize her, he hooked a leg over the arm of the chair and slouched sideways. With the box perched on his chest and hands crossed over his waistcoat, he flashed her a sardonic smile.

  “Willful, arrogant, and lest we forget, spoiled.” She scoffed. “You’re too much like your father.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, Mother.” He knew the answer to his next question but didn’t dare deny her the pleasure of speaking her mind. “No need to mince your words, as I’ve little doubt why you summoned me. Out with it. What do you think of her?”

  “I assume you chose her to spite me?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “It would have been easier if you had chosen someone trained for nobility. You know very well I was trained from birth to be the wife of a duke or a prince, at the very least a marquess or an earl. Training her is fatiguing. She’s common and knows nothing of our ways.”

  “Don’t tell me you aren’t enjoying yourself. You like her. I can tell.” To maintain an air of cool confidence, he laced his fingers behind his head.

  “The girl is insolent. I can see it in her eyes,” Mother replied.

  “Mmm. Threatened by her? Afraid she’ll usurp you? Quite possibly be a better duchess than you?” He winked though he knew he was treading dangerous waters.

  “Don’t be absurd. I’ll grant you this; she’s pretty and promisingly social. Both will be to her advantage since her purpose is to breed your heir. With any luck, she’s already with child.”

  Drake coughed and sputtered, almost dropping his snuffbox. “Mother! We’ve not yet been married two weeks!”

  “No sense in wasting time. Produce an heir and a spare while she’s ripe.”

  With a grimace, he muttered, “Your hounding is more likely to cause impotence, you know.”

  “What did you say?” After a pause, she said, “Your wife has one purpose and one purpose only—to produce your heir. I run the estate. You hold the title. And now she will continue the line. I’m disappointed by your choice, but she will serve her role adequately enough.”

  Feeling the stab, he defended, “Don’t talk about her that way. She’s not a possession. She’s a person, and she’s my wife.”

  “You’re being sentimental, as usual. Women are nothing more than property and breeders. I should know. You must fulfill your duty while she’s young,” she commanded.

  “Ever think I might be able to do that better if you weren’t training her all day and harassing me all evening? I’ve had her to myself for one hour since we arrived. Bit difficult to perform marital duties with you in the room.”

  “Don’t be vulgar,” she said.

  “That’s what she tells me,” he mumbled to himself.

  “The fact remains you need an heir. Your age is my concern, as is hers. She’s already eighteen and you’re three and thirty, both far older than is customary. You cannot take chances. I speak from experience, as you well know.” Catherine leaned against her cane, sighing with aggravation.

  Age lines around her mouth deepened as she frowned. “I should have seven children, including four boys, yet here I stand the mother of one wastrel of a boy and a useless girl. While I have never begrudged you the title, you should have been the third son. Even married at sixteen, it took years for me to conceive. Five stillbirths. Learn from my trials. You cannot delay. The longer you wait, the more difficult the situation. The line cannot end with you or my life will have been lived in vain.”

  “It’s always a pleasure sharing memories with you, Mother. We should do this more often.” He needed a pinch after that speech. The room had grown uncomfortably warm.

  Her eyes burrowed into his, digging for something. “Are you fulfilling your duties each night?” She probed.

  He fiddled with the lid on the snuff box, letting the click-snap answer for him.

  Click-snap. Click-snap.

  He focused his attention on the lid, willing it to fly off its hinges and whack his mother in the nose.

  Click-snap.

  “I suspected not. You’re wasting your time with that doxy, aren’t you? That widow. Spilling your seed where it does you no good. You’re disgraceful.” After a moment of silence, she amended, “Or is it the music? Are you forsaking your duty for that filth, pecking and plucking on women’s instruments?”

  Dammit. The ink stains on his hand would give him away. He curled his hand in a fist. Too late. She eyed his stained fingers and snarled.

  Her cane poked the sole of his boot. “Stop seeing that woman, nothing better than a trollop. Don’t think I don’t know what goes on in that house of hers. You’re wicked and sinful. You shame the family name. I’ll not have my son known as some feminine heathen.”

  His words strained between clenched teeth, he said, “Lady Waller is not a trollop. I’m neither sinful nor feminine. The harpsichord and violin are not only for women. And I’m a composer, not a heathen. I compose music, music that needs to do more than entertain peers in drawing rooms. I have a talent, rather you recognize it or not, and I aim to do something with it.”

  “Talent? Bah! No such thing. There is only money and power. Have you no respect for the life I’ve lived? Have you no idea what all I’ve done for you? You’re an ungrateful sloth. I’ve done everything in my power to ensure you didn’t live my life or suffer a heavy hand. I’ve sacrificed and toiled so you may know only freedom. I’ve indulged you for too long, allowing you to traipse the countryside with your mistress and debase yourself like a commoner. Both habits must end here.”

  “Indulge me? Allow me?” Drake laughed a single ha. “I hardly consider burning my compositions or blocking me from all estate business as indulging. You’ve controlled my life at every turn.”

  Turning her back to him, she walked to the door. “I’ll not stand for this abuse. You’ve no idea what sacrifices I’ve made for you or how well I’ve treated you. Not everyone lives a pampered life. Now, go to your wife. If you’re a man, you’ll go to her and fulfill your duty. Consider that an order.”

  Sitting up, his words heavy with sarcasm, he shouted to her retreating back, “Quick! Get my wife! Your orders have made me positively randy.”

  Chapter 10

  “I believe I should rearrange this room. Don’t you agree, Mary?”

  Saturday afternoon, a full week after arriving to Lyonn Manor, Charlotte and Mary sat in the Gray Parlor, enjoying tea and conversation.

  “I thought you liked this room,” said Mary.

  “I do. It’s my favorite room, honestly. But I need to rearrange it. Do you ever feel here in your breast the beating desire to change something?” Her palm pressed against her chest.

  Mary shrugged inelegantly.

  “Well, I do. I feel a keen desire to make changes. Drastic changes, you understand. I’ve been making lists of the changes, and I think it should all start in this parlor.”

  Mary’s response was less than enthusiastic. She shifted in her chair, looking sheepish and uncomfortable.

  Wriggling in her seat and fidgeting with the ribbons on her dress, Lady Mary said, “Are you positive it’s a good idea? Making changes, I mean. Mother prefers things a certain way, and I don’t think she’d appreciate you making changes without her approval. Have you spoken with her about rearranging furniture?”

  “Oh, Mary, where’s your sense of adventure? It will be great fun! And why should I need her permission? I am the Duchess of Annick, after all,” Charlotte said.

  The week had been so disappointing, she needed to do something to feel she belonged, some way to take control of her new life. Given Charlotte’s success with removing the portraits in her bedchamber, she felt empowered to do more.

  The Gray Parlor was where she anticipated spending most of her time given Captain Henry called this room home. She fully intended to turn this into the receiving room, assuming she could convince the butler.

  The wallp
aper was Roman silver with an attractive damask motif. The marble fireplace was topped with a mantle-to-ceiling mirror that reflected a row of candelabras. Three large windows took up the far wall, looking out onto the walled rose garden, vines with admirable blooms spilling over the side of the stone.

  The parlor was cozy, personable, unlike the imposing Red Drawing Room preferred by Catherine for receiving callers. That room was as disgustingly red as the bedchamber was peach and the Blue Drawing Room was blue. The room bled red from the draperies to the Moroccan leather chair coverings. And, oh, how Charlotte hated the paintings in the drawing room, looming over the sitting area, faces of scowling strangers. The paintings were of the late duke’s family, including two larger-than-life portraits of Catherine and her late husband.

  If Charlotte weren’t mistaken, the Red Drawing Room, with its hideous décor and nonsensical furniture arrangement, including a pianoforte shoved on the opposite side of the room far and away from all seating, had once been a ballroom. It was a massive room with astonishing acoustics. Why the dowager duchess would have converted it to a drawing room was beyond Charlotte’s comprehension. If Charlotte had her way, there’d be a ball in that room before winter.

  “I don’t see why you would want to rearrange the parlor. What would you do?” Mary asked, tugging absently at her bosom bow.

  “I’m so glad you asked!” Charlotte stood, grinning, and dashed to one side of the room. “Imagine if we moved the settee here. And then, wait for it, moved the chairs here. You could really see the garden from this vantage point! Come. Stand by me and imagine you’re seated at the settee. Is it not a divine view?”

  Mary complied, albeit hesitantly. As soon as she stood by Charlotte, though, her expression brightened.

  “Yes, you’re quite right. No one could object to this view of the garden, not even Mother, so long as you don’t move her favorite chair.” Mary pointed to a lone chair in front of the hearth. The legs were sunk so deeply into the rug, Charlotte suspected it hadn’t been moved for decades. “Mother sits there every evening. She won’t thank you if you move her chair.”

  With a courageous heart, Charlotte stepped over to the bellpull. “I’ll ring for Stella.”

  “Who?”

  “Stella. The parlor maid,” Charlotte said, surprised. How long had Mary lived here not to know the name of the parlor maid?

  “Oh. I didn’t realize she had a name.”

  Uncertain how else to respond, Charlotte laughed.

  Both the maid and her sister-in-law might be reluctant, but she was determined.

  One rearranged parlor and two hours later, Charlotte looted boxes, pulling out clothes to throw over chairs, ottomans, and tables. Mary squealed as she twirled with a ball gown in her arms.

  Scattered about the room were twelve dresses, one ball gown, and three riding habits, along with several bonnets, one pair of shoes per dress, stockings, gloves, handkerchiefs, and several fans. Oh, it was wonderful to be a duchess! Morning dresses, tea dresses, walking dresses, dinner dresses, and carriage dresses littered the chair arms and the back of the settee.

  “I never expected dresses to arrive so soon. I was only fitted on Tuesday! How is this possible?”

  “What Mother wants, she gets. I’m convinced every seamstress in Annick has been working since your fitting to ensure a week’s worth arrived immediately. These are only the start. Mother is seeing to a new wardrobe, you know.” Holding a yellow ball gown to her bosom, Mary bowed. “May I have the next dance, Your Grace?”

  Charlotte snatched up a periwinkle dress, draped it over her shoulder, and curtsied. “I saved the next dance for you, my lady,” Charlotte replied.

  Their giggles of delight were accompanied by Captain Henry’s singing interspersed with squawks. They danced about the room. Charlotte was too excited to worry about looking silly, and besides, no one was there to see her acting childish except Mary.

  The butler had interrupted their rearrangement a short time ago to bring in a flurry of footmen with boxes, all courtesy of the modiste.

  Charlotte and Mary collapsed into an empty chair together and buried themselves under bonnets.

  “Is it always this exciting to receive new clothes?” Charlotte asked.

  “Yes, always!” Mary declared, then rethought her answer. “No, not always. Not when the new clothes are purchased for lecherous suitors who foam at the mouth.”

  “I don’t envy you. Tell me you did your best to discourage the frother’s affections.” Charlotte tried on one of her new bonnets and grabbed an ivory handled fan.

  “I tried every trick in my arsenal, but I don’t think he was deterred. I even professed to keeping pet toads hoping he’d find me odd, but he didn’t listen to a word I said.” Mary tried on a pair of half boots while she whinged. “Speaking of not hearing a word, you won’t believe one suitor Mother invited. He was so old he had to hold a horn to his ear to hear me! The only temptation is he lives all the way in Shropshire, far from Mother. Even she says I should choose him because he’s a wealthy earl and won’t live long enough for me to care.”

  “She does have a point, you know,” Charlotte replied with a flirtatious flick of the fan.

  Mary wrinkled her nose, and they fell into another fit of laughter.

  “I knew we would be the best of friends!” Mary declared. “I’m so happy you’re here. Life can be tedious with Mother. I worried Drake wouldn’t marry, and then she would have forced on him someone just like her.”

  Charlotte had to agree one of Mama Catherine was enough for any family, but she didn’t care for another reminder that Drake had felt forced into marriage, especially not after the happiest hour she’d spent since London. The new dresses and parlor rearrangement had her feeling encouraged about the future, so much so, she almost didn’t mind the upcoming evening with her mother-in-law.

  Catherine had informed her they would be writing invitations for the annual shooting party in October. Another day scheduled by the dragon. Another day not her own.

  “I will need an entire room for my new wardrobe, Mary.”

  “And more is to come.” Mary traced the embroidered flowers on one of the dresses. “I’m envious. If this is what it is like to marry a duke, then I want to marry a duke, too. You are so fortunate, Charlotte.” After a thoughtful pause, she asked, “Are you happy you married my brother? Do you love him?”

  Startled, Charlotte set the fan aside and unlaced the bonnet. In London, she thought love might come naturally over time, but she supposed she had been mistaken. She hardly knew Drake and felt little more than a pawn between him and his mother. Such sentiments couldn’t be shared with his sister.

  “I admit, I’m dazzled by Drake. I adored him from our first meeting.” Hopefully, that was a satisfactory yet noncommittal answer.

  Mary nodded. “I understand. Mother says marriage has nothing to do with love. Only commoners marry for love, she reminds me with every call from a suitor. I’ve oft wondered if she’s lying. The way my brother looks at you makes me think Mother is full of fluff.”

  “The way he looks at me? When? In what way?” Charlotte sat up.

  “Oh, you know, like you’re the prettiest girl in the world. Starry eyed. He watches you at dinner when you’re not looking. I notice these things, you know.”

  “Well, you must be mistaken. He doesn’t look at me like that. I would notice,” Charlotte protested.

  Mary, obviously bored by a conversation about her brother, pulled out a box of ribbons to exclaim over.

  Chapter 11

  Drake lunged past his attacker, narrowly missing the tip of the sword.

  No time for anything more than a swift intake of breath. Without an escape, he would be skewered, a decorative tassel at the end of his assailant’s blade.

  After a prompt riposte, he shuffled backwards.

  His opponent advanced.


  The metal of their sabres met in a conversation of quick parries and ripostes.

  His arm burned. His shoulder blade protested. His mind needed to be sharper for this moment, his body more rested.

  One second of relaxing his guard could prove fatal. He pushed himself to concentrate, watching infinitesimal movements to second guess his opponent.

  The battle royale ended with a feint attack to Drake’s chest, the sword’s intention being Drake’s head.

  Drake’s stop cut and circular parry deflected the sabre. With a quick balestra footwork, he leapt airborne into a flunge, his flying lunge ending with a cut to the man’s head.

  “Touché!” shouted Drake.

  Winston laughed, removing his wire mask before shaking Drake’s hand. “Aye, I noticed. Splendid displacement, mate. It’s a good thing we weren’t dueling, or I’d be missing my left ear.”

  “You might be a sight better looking without an ear, old fellow.” Drake slapped his friend’s back as they moved to the edge of the ballroom to sheath sabres and remove padding.

  While Drake and Winston hadn’t fenced competitively since Eton, they did meet weekly to stay nimble and strong, strength being an easy win given the heftiness of the sabre, the heaviest of fencing swords.

  “Try as you might to insult my esteem, I know you’re still bitter about that time Miss Frances chose me over you.” Winston ruffled his close-cropped hair, smoothing the dishevelment caused by the mask.

  “Good Lord, you’re still on about that? Has nothing happened in your life since we were seventeen? As I recall, Frances had horse teeth. Not a prize I would cling to beyond a year.”

  Winston threw back his head and laughed.

  He held the title of best mate. While Drake had numerous friends during his visits to London, namely a group of fashionable peers, including the prince, most of those friends returned to their small part of the world after Parliament recessed. Winston and Sebastian both lived in Northumberland, making an easy year-round friendship possible.