Say Yes to the Duke EPB

by James, Eloisa

  “We belong together,” she whispered.

  He glanced at Joan, waiting by the door, and bent his head closer to her. “I can’t wait to see your cowshed.”

  They walked to the door together, hand in hand.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Three Days Later

  St. Margaret’s Church

  Miss Viola Astley married the Duke of Wynter in a ceremony that, had the bride bothered to envision her own wedding, she would have considered perfect.

  St. Margaret’s Church, next to Westminster Abbey, was closed to all visitors, and only her dearest family thronged in the front pews. The Murgatroyds were practically Wildes at this point: Sir Reginald sat beside Aunt Knowe; Hazel had claimed Diana and North’s baby Peter and cuddled him the entire time; and Joan and Otis sat together, wearing equally naughty expressions. Even Willa came, leaning on Alaric’s arm, and risking—as Aunt Knowe said—a baby born in the pew.

  Devin was magnificent in a suit fitted to such perfection that Lavinia had reached out and touched his coat. “I adore the cut of this lapel,” she had said dreamily. Parth had swooped in and advised Devin to ignore his wife. “I know she looks as if she wants to rip the coat off your body,” he had advised, “but she just wants to inspect the lining.”

  Viola forced her attention back to the words of the marriage ceremony. “Will you, Viola Astley . . .” The Dean of Westminster Abbey, the Very Reverend Henry Damson, went on and on, listing a frighteningly precise inventory of all the things that she and Devin might have to weather together.

  “Yes,” she said, looking at Devin, not at the ground, “I will.”

  When he slid a ring on her finger, Viola smiled down at the exquisite circlet. “Not my mother’s,” Devin had told her the night before. “We will begin our own tradition.” The ring was silver, with a pattern of leaves adorned with small diamonds and a very large diamond for good measure.

  “You may kiss the bride,” the dean remarked, scarcely making himself heard over the joyous shouting of the Wildes, who had taken the lack of fellow guests as a sign that they could be themselves.

  There it was.

  They were married, not just in sickness and in health, but till death do us part.

  Devin’s mouth quirked as he looked down at her. “My duchess.”

  “My duke,” Viola returned.

  He bent his head and kissed her until the dean coughed. Devin lifted his head and caught her against him when she lost her balance and teetered on her heels.

  They walked back down the long aisle of St. Margaret’s like that, Devin’s arm wrapped around Viola’s waist, her body tucked against his.

  Ophelia was crying; the Duke of Lindow was laughing. Aunt Knowe seemed to be having an amiable argument with Sir Reginald. Otis was elbowing Joan; Erik was smirking; Parth had forgotten all rules about public decency and was kissing Lavinia passionately. In fact, when the Wildes and Murgatroyds filed out of the pews and followed the bride and groom, the families left those two behind, everyone crowding about to watch Devin and Viola sign the register of the parish.

  The wedding breakfast passed in a blur of champagne and joyous toasts, along with all matter of delicacies created by the Duke of Lindow’s French cook.

  Until it was time to leave.

  Feeling dazed but happy, Viola climbed into the Wynter carriage, clutching handfuls of silken gauze from the beautiful gown that Lavinia had appropriated from one of the modistes who enjoyed her patronage. Behind her, the duke—her husband!—said a last word to Sir Reginald, nodded to the duchess, and swung himself into the carriage to sit opposite her.

  As the vehicle lurched into motion, Viola forced herself to look straight at Devin. No more sideways glances just to make sure that he was still in the church, and hadn’t changed his mind.

  His eyes were possessive . . . desirous . . . cautious.

  “I think that went well,” she said. “Don’t you agree?”

  “The breakfast or the ceremony? I liked the moment when Barty responded to the dean’s question,” Devin said.

  “If any of you can show just cause why they may not lawfully be married, speak now, or else forever hold your peace,” Viola said ruefully. “He was silent until that moment!”

  “He squawked loudly enough that everyone knew his opinion on the matter,” Devin said, grinning.

  “He’s not usually noisy,” Viola said, trying to get her mind around the idea that she was going to be living with a stranger. A virtual stranger. Not a complete stranger. Anxiety began to press on the back of her throat. “He won’t bother you,” she said. “Usually he sleeps in my room, but of course that needn’t happen. I mean . . .”

  She stopped, realizing that she had absolutely no idea if they would share a room. Her parents did, but that was unusual. Scarlet heat swept up her chest into her cheeks.

  Devin leaned forward. “Our marriage happened quite quickly,” he said. “My butler, Binsey, has prepared the duchess’s suite for you, naturally.”

  Viola nodded.

  “It’s on a different floor from my chambers,” he added.

  Her eyes widened.

  “My mother preferred to be out of earshot.”

  Viola didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”

  “Luckily, the townhouse is large enough that she didn’t have to move to the servants’ quarters,” Devin said, looking completely unmoved by the memory.

  “You won’t hear Barty squawking!” she exclaimed, realizing why he had told her about the duchess’s suite. Even more embarrassing thoughts crowded her mind. Did that mean that they wouldn’t be consummating the marriage?

  Her mother’s instructions regarding marital intimacy had been profoundly different from her headmistress’s. Ophelia seemed to think that bedding one’s husband was one of the most pleasant things in the world.

  “I won’t hear Barty squawking,” Devin confirmed. “Unless I tempt you into sleeping in my chambers, of course.”

  The carriage jolted, and Viola reached out to grab the hanging strap.

  “Perhaps you should join me on this seat,” Devin said. “The front seat in a carriage is safer.”

  She eyed him. “The carriage merely swayed because it rounded a corner,” she said, wishing that the flush in her cheeks would go away.

  Devin gave her a smile. A small one that didn’t involve curling the corners of his mouth as much as a look in his eyes. It made sensation race through her, giving her the breathless feeling one has on a summer night when a star flashes across the sky like a beacon from some other world.

  His smile deepened until it actually involved his mouth. He had a beautiful mouth. His bottom lip was deep and perfectly curved. She’d like to . . .

  She wrenched her eyes away.

  “Since you won’t come to my seat,” Devin said, “perhaps I should move to yours.” His voice was shaded with amusement, but underneath was an emotion that she recognized: carnal desire. “Emotion” didn’t seem a strong enough word for whatever it was that hovered in the air between them.

  It was more elemental, like those shooting stars that demanded to be noticed.

  Had she really wondered whether they would consummate their marriage?

  He waited, eyes patient. “All right,” she said, moving to the side. “I have to warn you that my panniers are wide. The dress was designed for a lady with more generous proportions than I, and Lavinia’s seamstresses were up all night reshaping the skirts.”

  “I would guess that the lady’s generous proportions didn’t include her bosom,” Devin said, his eyes drifting from her face to her bosom. “I love that gown.”

  Viola glanced down and just stopped herself from tugging at the bodice.

  “The light coming through the stained glass made you look as if you were dusted with gilt from head to foot,” Devin said.

  Viola swallowed hard but didn’t trust herself to speak. She felt as if she were breathless from running, though she was doing nothing more arduous than me
eting Devin’s eyes.

  “Why on earth do women bother with so much fabric?” Devin asked, rising with perfect balance in the swaying carriage, picking up her skirts, and sitting down with a lapful of silk.

  “I don’t like a large pannier,” Viola said. “But on occasion it feels magnificent, as if one were a ship in full sail.”

  “I can’t say I have any interest in experiencing it.”

  Viola tried to think of something clever to say, and failed. She was used to feeling shy, but not around Devin, and this current bout of shyness was particularly inconvenient.

  If she were more courageous, she could lean against his shoulder.

  Or put a hand on his arm, turn her head, and indicate that she’d like to be kissed. But how does one do that?

  Wilde Child, she thought, and shook the thought off.

  She wasn’t a child, and she was no longer a Wilde. Now she was . . .

  “What is my last name?” she asked Devin. “I’m used to thinking of you as the Duke of Wynter. I didn’t notice when we signed the register.”

  That startled a crack of laughter from him. “My name is Devin Lucas Augustus Elstan, Duke of Wynter, along with some secondary titles that I don’t bother about.”

  “Elstan,” Viola said thoughtfully.

  “You are Viola Annabel Elstan, Duchess of Wynter.”

  The words hung in the carriage, the only other sound the rattle of wheels along the street. Viola was trying to decide why Devin’s voice sounded tender when he said her name. Her new name.

  Because he chose her, she thought.

  Happiness swirled in her chest. Devin had chosen her to be his duchess. Even before the threat of scandal, Devin had made it clear that he had meant to woo her.

  Her husband pulled off his gloves and tossed them on the seat opposite. “I imagined you as my duchess only a few minutes after meeting you.” He gave her that smile. The joyful one that awakened every limb of her body and made her want to melt toward him.

  She busied herself by removing her gloves as well.

  “When I imagined a Duchess of Wynter, it didn’t occur to me that she would reside anywhere other than the floor above me. Had I bothered to consider the matter, I would have assumed that we would come to a mutually agreeable arrangement as regards intimacies.”

  She darted a look at him.

  “Once a week? Twice a week? Once a month? Whatever Her Grace desired.”

  The look in his eyes should be outlawed.

  Whatever Her Grace desired?

  “Ah,” Viola said, making herself sound like a hopeless ninny. She had her gloves off. What should she do with them? He had tossed his on the seat with a careless bravado, as if he meant to do something important with his bare hands.

  She couldn’t imply that. Instead, she stared down at the silk. Whatever Her Grace desired?

  “Of course,” Devin said, that gleam of amusement as clear to her ears as if he rang a bell, “if the duchess is not quite certain what she desires . . .”

  Viola gulped. Wilde Child. Not child. Duchess. She straightened her head and met his eyes. “I am not experienced in these matters.”

  “It’s my first marriage as well,” Devin said.

  “That’s not what I meant. I meant—” Her mind boggled.

  “Country matters?” he suggested.

  “What?”

  “As Shakespeare had it.”

  “I am not very literary. In fact, I loathe long poems.” She straightened again. “I’m sorry if I disappoint you in that respect.”

  “I never read poetry,” Devin said. “One of my tutors was supposed to teach me Shakespeare, but he was dismissed before we finished the comedies. I’ve never read Hamlet or Lear, for that matter.”

  “You haven’t missed anything!” Viola exclaimed. “Joan adores the theater. She made me read King Lear aloud to her three times while she acted all the female parts. It’s a nasty play about unpleasant people.”

  “I shan’t bother reading it, in that case. I already see how useful marriage will be.”

  That made Viola look at him again. “I’m actually not a very useful person.”

  Another smile. “You needn’t be. I hope you will be a happy person.”

  “No one can be happy all the time,” Viola observed. She took courage from the taut intensity in his expression. Devin wanted her. He was presumably feeling the same thing she was: a deep awareness of his every move. From the corner of her eye, she could see his unbearably erotic, ungloved hands. Those hands had caressed her in the vicarage.

  Tonight, she was certain, they would caress her in other places.

  The thought made her feel hungry. Unladylike. She cleared her throat. “What shall we do this afternoon?” she asked brightly. Just in time she closed her mouth, before she clarified before bed.

  “My household is eager to meet you,” Devin said.

  “Oh, yes,” Viola said without enthusiasm. She knew how to run a great house, of course. She had been raised to manage a household, talk to butlers, keep the house accounts. Every year Ophelia gave her daughters an imaginary household and had them plan all the servants, down to the bootblack.

  Two days later, they would meet and compare budgets. Viola always hired too many outdoor staff and hardly any upstairs maids, because she hated being watched.

  “Our household,” Devin amended.

  Viola nodded and summoned a smile. Was she supposed to say that she was eager to meet them? Many young ladies longed to run a ducal household. None of the Wildes did.

  They all knew how much work it was.

  Devin moved slightly closer and Viola’s skin prickled to life. “What do you want from me?” he asked, his eyes serious.

  “In what respect?”

  “As a husband. Other than the given: respect, affection, duty. And fidelity.”

  Viola had seen plenty of marriages in which those attributes didn’t seem to be a given, but she was happy to hear they would be in hers. Her bout of shyness eased. “I feel safe with you.”

  “Good,” he said, his voice a low growl. “I will always protect you, Viola. I will give my life for yours.”

  “I hope there’s no need for that. I would like a kiss,” she said.

  His face eased. “What sort of kiss? Here?” He kissed her forehead.

  “No.”

  “Here?” He kissed her cheek, the way one kisses a child.

  Viola turned and caught his neck cloth. “I have some rules for marriage. No shouting.”

  He nodded.

  “No treating me like a child. I am younger than you, but I am an adult.” She was quite certain of that. There was nothing like experiencing profound humiliation to drive one to maturity. She often felt three or four years older than Joan, even though their birthdays were not far apart.

  “You are my partner,” Devin promised.

  “I do not want to spend the afternoon touring the house and meeting the members of your household.”

  “No?” He looked startled but nodded. “We can do whatever you wish.”

  She tugged on his neck cloth, ruining its perfectly starched edges. “I want to consummate our marriage, Devin. If I have to wait until this evening, I will be twice the nervous wreck that I am already. I may look calm, but I am not.”

  His hands came up over hers and then fell away. “We won’t do anything that frightens you.” There was something fierce in his voice. “I have no interest in that.”

  “Kiss me,” Viola said, tugging again.

  He bent his head and brushed his lips over hers.

  Annoyed, she nipped his lower lip and licked the reddened mark.

  His eyes kindled and his lips opened against hers. “The duchess commands?”

  “You said that I could have anything I desire,” she reminded him.

  “I don’t want to frighten you.”

  “I’m not frightened of kisses,” she said impatiently. “I’m nervous because I don’t know what’s to come. I don’t want to spe
nd the entire day with my stomach in knots.”

  His voice dropped to a velvety purr. “I completely understand, and I sympathize.”

  “I can assure you that if I spend the day walking about the house making small talk with your housekeeper, introducing my maid to the butler, finding out what the accounts and the house book look like . . . by the time supper comes about I will be a babbling idiot.”

  Devin stared down at his wife—his wife!

  The word echoed around his mind.

  Viola was the most complicated mathematical theorem he’d encountered in his entire life. She looked and sounded like a young lady, but she didn’t act like one.

  Above all, above even her training as a lady, she was honest.

  She was gazing up at him now, her eyes a mix of bravado and fear.

  “We could wait to consummate our marriage,” he said, although his body was thrumming with a deep pulse of desire. “We could wait days, weeks, even.”

  He’d probably spontaneously combust. He laid one finger on the flawless skin of her cheek. It was as delicately tinted as the first blush on a peach, long before it should be taken from the branch.

  And yet, here she was: demanding to be plucked.

  He had an unnerving sensation that he would never entirely understand Viola. No. That was unacceptable. Of course, he would come to understand her.

  She shook her head. “I do not wish to wait.”

  “Why not?”

  She blinked and her brows drew together. “Do you not wish to make love tonight, Devin? Because I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

  He managed not to laugh. “I have a suggestion. I shall carry you inside the house, nod to my butler, and climb the stairs.”

  Her eyes rounded. “You’ll carry me up the stairs?”

  “To my bedchamber, not yours. I’ll play your lady’s maid and remove your gown myself.”

  “Oh.” She said it softly and he couldn’t tell what she thought. “Oh” wasn’t “no.” “Won’t your household think—”

  “Ours is not the usual wedding, planned for eight months and celebrated with four priests and a hundred guests. My household knows—nay, all of London knows—that I want you for my wife so much that I cannot wait. I will not wait.”