“My what?”
“Good heavens, gel. You’ll catch flies with that vulgarly open mouth.”
Taking a deep breath to quell her shock, Lilian attempted a smile. “Beg pardon. I didn’t know you and Father were, ah, interviewing prospective husbands for me.”
“Well, I wasn’t,” said Lord Kingsford hesitantly. “On account of the esteem you held for your late fiancé. Wanted you to find someone else you liked in time—”
Her grandmother snorted. “That is quite enough, Kingsford. Lilian is twenty-two and your coffers are empty. We cannot afford any more dilly-dallying. Of course she must marry, and to a wealthy peer. It is her duty to her family, and Nash women always do their duty. Is that not correct, Lilian?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Now, thanks to my connections and influence, your father has an offer of marriage for you. If it is accepted, we will be connected to one of England’s pre-eminent families, and this financial unpleasantness will vanish. It is imperative that it happens swiftly, because rumors are already swirling in certain circles. You wouldn’t allow us to be publicly humiliated, or destroy any potential happiness for your sisters and brother…would you?”
An icy shiver shot down Lilian’s back, and suddenly the library seemed a great deal smaller and darker. There was something altogether not right about this audience. Her father had bowed his head to avoid meeting her gaze, and Grandmother’s words had held an edge that in another person might be called trepidation.
“Who has offered for me, Father?” she asked, forcing the words past a dry throat.
Lord Kingsford eventually looked up, his smile strained. “It’s a splendid match, my dear. You’ll be top of the tree. Excellent address, jewels fit for a princess, a generous allowance that will double after the birth of an heir and spare…you’ve always desired a nursery full of children, here is your chance. You’ll never want for anything, I promise.”
Lilian swallowed hard.
Indeed, she had always wanted to be a mother, but it was so very difficult thinking of a family with anyone other than Exton. It had been a dream come true when he proposed, so elegant and gentlemanly, an aristocrat to the tips of his toes. The way he’d expertly twirled her around a ballroom, taken her for garden strolls, ices at Gunter’s and several carefully chaperoned curricle outings in Hyde Park…well, she’d been smitten. After their betrothal she’d been rather less smitten by a shockingly candid conversation about her future duties, and his mistress. It seemed Exton would keep that nameless courtesan for pleasure, while marital relations with his wife would be strictly for the creation of children. The thought of sharing the man she loved with another woman had stung terribly, but surely if she obeyed Exton’s every instruction and welcomed him warmly to her bed, he would discard his mistress.
So she had nodded gravely. Exton had beamed, patted her hand, and told her she was born to be a duchess. The relief at his words had been tremendous. Once upon a time, she’d been an awkward moppet similar in nature to her wicked late mother, a frivolous girl who loved dressing up, gardening, warm hugs, and asking far too many questions. Fortunately Grandmother’s lectures and canings had broken her of those terrible character flaws, and Exton had been her reward.
But to be top of the tree as Father said, she needed another duke. Who could possibly replace Exton? There were hardly a plethora of unwed dukes in the realm. Unless they thought to send her abroad?
“Who, Father?” she repeated, her anxiety growing.
Grandmother smiled thinly. “The new Duke of Exton.”
“What?” The cry escaped before she could swallow it down. “No!”
“Gracious. Are there crows flying by? How unbecoming, Lilian. I am very disappointed in you.”
Lord Kingsford rose to his feet. “Now, Mother—”
“Sit down. You begged for my assistance, and I have provided it by meeting with Imogen and proposing this match. It took some persuasion, but your eldest will be Duchess of Exton, as she was always meant to be.”
Lilian’s hands bunched in her green-striped gown, all thoughts of decorum vanishing in the dark whirlwind of this abhorrent news. How could they do this? Of all the peers in England, press her to marry the new duke, her late fiancé’s cousin? “I cannot. You ask too much, Grandmother.”
“Be quiet. You are behaving like a henwit. Every young lady in England would give her last farthing to be a duchess, and you balk? When the happiness and wellbeing of your own family, and so many servants and tenants, is at stake?”
“But…” she whispered hoarsely. “He’s mad. Colonel Jordan-Ives is mad. And dangerous. Both Exton and Lord Simon, God rest them, said so.”
Her grandmother glared at her, her eyes cold and hard as flint. “I’m sure you mistook their meaning. And you forget yourself, both in tone and reference to His Grace, Gabriel, the fourteenth Duke of Exton. Tomorrow you shall meet him. Then you’ll marry by special license, three days hence. And that is the end of the matter.”
Civilian clothes were the devil.
Gabriel looked away in disgust from the ostentatiously large mirror in the equally ostentatious ducal bedchamber. It would be so much easier if he could meet Lady Lilian in his scarlet regimentals, but those could only be worn by a soldier on active service. In uniform, with the gold epaulets on each shoulder and badged with star and crown to designate him as a colonel, the scar disfiguring half his face became less conspicuous. Or at least felt less conspicuous. As did his stubbornly bronzed skin, which no potion or poultice could scrub away. But in perfectly pressed gray trousers, starched cravat, embroidered silver waistcoat and black jacket he looked all wrong, like a barbarian playing at dressing up. He wanted to rip the false, constricting, itchy veneer of aristocratic respectability from his body and go back to bed, as much as he wanted to rip the cream silk from the bedchamber walls and smash the uncomfortable and thoroughly impractical gilt furniture his cousin had so adored.
Last evening had been another bad one. Not even owning vast cellars of wine, brandy, port and fine Scottish whisky could get him drunk enough to forget, or to sleep. While ostensibly early spring, March still felt like winter in England, endless months where it seemed a bright warm sun would never appear again. The frigid gloom, the too-short days, only strengthened the bars of the cage around his mind.
“Your Grace? The carriage is ready to depart for Lord Kingsford’s townhouse.”
Gabriel turned and glared at Hobbs. His valet had fallen far too easily into the habit of addressing him by his new title, and now he would give anything to be Colonel, or just sir again. “Efficiency for once. Excellent.”
“Don’t be concerned, it will go well. I understand the earl and his mother are both most eager for this match.”
“What about my dear fiancée?” he said sardonically. “Or do her feelings not matter?”
Hobbs hesitated, then moved closer. “Of course they do. But Lady Lilian knows it is a good bargain. All her father’s debts settled, and she will be a duchess, mistress of her own domain, and treated very well. You gain the dragon of a grandmother’s clout, and an accomplished, well-bred wife with an excellent reputation. Without even having to court her.”
The stark practicality of his valet’s statement both soothed and rankled. While it was indeed a blessing to not have to leave the townhouse and attend balls, soirees and picnics to meet potential brides, marrying a stranger had never been something he’d wished to do. What if they hated each other? Lady Lilian could be bloody ghastly, a mean-spirited gossip, or someone whose conversation never ventured beyond the weather. If she was as stuffy as Quentin would have wanted, she might well hate the thought of the marriage bed and permit only the most basic coupling until she fell pregnant and barred him from her chamber. If that was the case, he would have to find a mistress to indulge the rough, lusty fucking he’d enjoyed before Bayonne. Goddamn it. He’d always planned to be faithful to his wife. Have a happy marriage like his parents, before they tragically pass
ed of the fever that had swept through the county after he’d joined the army.
“No courtship is not…necessarily a good thing.”
“But having a wife is,” said Hobbs, giving Gabriel’s jacket sleeve yet another light brush. “You need to secure the title with heirs. Besides. People are talking about your, ah, troubles. I’ve tried to stop the gossip, but these servants aren’t loyal to you. I’m sure they often report back to those damned lawyers. I don’t trust any of them. A wife could manage this household and get the servants up to scratch, while you concentrate on parliamentary and estate matters. And regaining your health.”
Humiliation burned.
Being a seasoned military man didn’t help at all when it came to understanding lands and crops or tenants and ledgers. Not to mention political papers so long and detailed they could be used to hold doors open. Every time he thought to meet with stewards or take his seat in the House of Lords, he would have an especially bad night and spend days recovering. Sometimes it felt like he had lost his mind. His skin would grow damp with sweat, his hands would shake, and catching his breath became impossible. Every room had to be lit up like Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, with candles and roaring fires to stave off the darkness, furniture removed or pushed to the walls, and definitely no four-poster bed in his chamber just so he didn’t feel trapped.
Thirty years old, and a bloody damned mess.
But Lady Lilian could help. No doubt she’d been trained since birth to organize households, and could act as his hostess at political dinners. If she wanted to redecorate, so be it. It wasn’t like he was attached to any of the furnishings, in fact, he’d welcome more comfortable chairs and a less gaudy outlook.
“Enough talk about my health,” Gabriel said shortly.
“Oh no, Your Grace. Not irritable. Today you must be…charming.”
His lips twitched at the older man’s earnest face. “Are you saying I’m not?”
“I’m saying there are bears woken from hibernation more pleasant. And you…you really need an ally. Lady Lilian has no connection with the lawyers, or your servants. I fear your poor aunt is too consumed with grief to be of any real assistance at this time, but a wife with Lady Lilian’s stature and skills could be a tutor of sorts and a buffer in discussions.”
Gabriel sighed and picked up his jet-topped cane, a practical necessity with the added protection of a deadly retractable blade. “I am a duke rebuked. Just don’t do it in public. Not going to be responsible…for mass swoonings.”
“There! You know, when you speak in short sentences, perhaps adjust a cuff or allow a cough during speech, your words are easily understood.”
“Thank you, Nanny. Begone.”
Within a half-hour, the ducal carriage pulled up outside the Kingsford townhouse in Hanover Square. Unlike his own townhouse, the place looked immaculate: stairs swept, windows clean, brass door knocker polished to a gleaming shine, and a deferential butler appeared to welcome him.
“Your Grace,” said the silver-haired man with a low bow, as though he were practically royalty. “Good afternoon. If you would please follow me, I’ll take you straight to see the family.”
The entrance hall of Kingsford House wasn’t nearly as well-lit as his own however, and a trickle of perspiration immediately gathered at the nape of his neck. Fuck. No. Not today.
Taking a deep breath, Gabriel gripped his cane tighter, then inclined his head at the butler. “Lead on.”
“His lordship, the dowager, and Lady Lilian are in the gold parlor. It is a short distance,” the older man finished delicately, clearly aware of the guest’s infirmities.
Gabriel made a non-committal sound, and they walked the rest of the way to the parlor in silence. Not that the butler would have expected conversation, but it took every ounce of Gabriel’s will to keep his feet moving, and remember to inhale and exhale. This townhouse had obviously been designed by someone with a fondness for Tudor architecture, and the narrow hallways, small diamond-paned windows, and dark paneling would turn him Bedlamite if he became lost.
“Here we are, Your Grace,” said the butler, as he rapped on the door, and bowed low again.
Nodding his thanks, Gabriel pushed open the door and entered the room. Ugh. Quentin would have been very much at home in this elaborate monstrosity of peach silk walls, gilt-framed paintings, and fussy embroidered chaises.
“Your Grace! Welcome. You are most welcome in my home,” said a plump, ruddy-faced gentleman, getting to his feet from one of the chaises. “I am Kingsford, of course.”
“My lord,” said Gabriel, inclining his head.
“Allow me to introduce my mother, the dowager Lady Kingsford.”
A cold-eyed, silver-haired woman draped in diamonds and wearing a severe gray gown, sank into a curtsy. “Exton.”
“Lady Kingsford.”
“And,” continued the earl heartily, “this is my beloved eldest daughter, the Lady Lilian Nash.”
Gabriel turned his head.
And almost forgot to breathe.
This was Lady Lilian?
Whatever he’d been expecting, it certainly wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life. A contrast to him in every way, she looked too perfect to be real as she curtsied deeply. Eyes the blue of Ceylon sapphires, golden hair arranged in a coiled braid at her nape that no single strand dared escape. Creamy skin unblemished by so much as a freckle, well at least the small amount not hidden by a shapeless long-sleeved white gown with a pale blue sash, making it impossible to tell if she possessed curves or not. But her mouth. If the rest of her cried virginal angel, her mouth was sin personified. Plump, pink lips just made to kiss for hours, to beg for wicked pleasures, to wrap around his cock and suck him dry.
Lady Lilian was a woman he could happily gaze upon for the rest of his life. A ray of light in a dark world. Once she grew used to his countenance and quirks, they might even form a friendship. Perhaps more. Christ, just the thought of her as a loving wife, naked and wet and eager in his bed, craving his touch, pleading to be fucked hard and deep…
“Your Grace?”
Hell. All three members of the Nash family were staring at him. Had he made a sound? Had he actually growled like a starving wolf as his body abruptly returned to life after being suffocated in shadow for so long?
Gabriel inclined his head. “Delighted, my lady.”
Gabriel, Duke of Exton, was terrifying.
Counting backward from twenty in her head so she didn’t scream, Lilian somehow managed to seat herself back on her chair without fainting in a heap at her new fiancé’s feet.
Good heavens. The rumors of danger and madness were probably true. How on earth could she marry this man?
Exton was huge, at least a full head taller than her previous betrothed had been. Massive shoulders strained against his jacket, and his trousers indecently outlined thighs that were far too hard looking for a gentleman. He appeared raw and rough, with swarthy skin, black-as-night hair, and equally dark eyes pinning her in place, plus a horrific, painful-looking scar on one side of his face. The very portrait of a medieval warrior forced into modern attire for the day. But the way he had looked at her for a moment…like he hadn’t eaten for a month and she was a six-course banquet, made perspiration coat her entire body. She wanted to run. All the way up to her bedchamber, latch the door and shove her trousseau chest against it for good measure.
When the silence stretched beyond politeness, her father cleared his throat. “Please do take a seat, Exton. You have seen the contracts?”
“I have,” said the duke as he lowered himself onto a chaise, but his gaze remained locked on her. As though he might see into her soul.
Lilian shivered.
Giving her a disgusted look, Grandmother turned to Exton. “The terms outlined are non-negotiable, of course. Lilian will be an exemplary duchess and can be relied upon to always do her marital duty. Her late mother delivered four healthy children, including twins, with little enough fuss. You n
eedn’t worry on that account. You’ll soon have the heirs you need.”
Embarrassment scorched Lilian’s cheeks at the blunt discussion, but her father merely nodded, and the duke sat expressionless as if they were commenting on the weather. Clearly nothing was sacred when it came to marriage contracts.
“I’m sure all will be…” said Exton, pausing to flick a speck of something from his jacket sleeve, “…satisfactory.”
Tension plummeted the temperature in the room. Even her grandmother shifted a little in her chair, an entirely uncharacteristic show of nervousness. For all the cool bravado, everyone here knew the duke held the upper hand, as he would pay Father’s debts and save the family from ruin. Yet could he be unconvinced about the match? The way he had hesitated before saying the word satisfactory…
Lilian straightened her shoulders. She had to gather her scattered wits and behave like a soon-to-be duchess, not a featherbrain. If she caused this to fail, no one would ever forgive her. “Perhaps,” she said politely, “His Grace might enjoy a breath of fresh air on the balcony?”
“Capital idea,” said her father, breaking into a broad, relieved smile. “What say you, Exton? Like a few minutes alone with Lilian before we sign the contracts? Mother and I will wait here while you take a turn outdoors.”
That thoroughly disconcerting ducal gaze returned to rest on her, and Lilian immediately regretted her offer. He looked hungry again. Would he touch her? Kiss her? Tear away her clothing with his big, strong hands and ravish her mercilessly against the stone balustrade?
A choked gasp escaped. Where had that wicked thought come from? Future duchesses shouldn’t even know the word ravish, let alone think about it. And certainly not in regard to a mad, dangerous duke.
“As you wish,” said Exton, and he slowly rose to his feet. But when he held out his shockingly ungloved hand, an odd look settled on his face, almost like he fought a smile. Good heavens. Had he deciphered her thoughts? Was the duke laughing at her?
Duke in Darkness (Wickedly Wed Book 1) Page 2