“You misunderstand me, sir.” A slight breeze ruffled her hair, tearing a wispy curl from her simple coiffure. Hastily, she swiped it from her cheek. “Your background is not the reason for my desire to add the amendment.”
He cocked his head, considering her. “Then what is, Lady Elysande? Even I am not so unversed in the dealings between men and women that I believe your request is common, particularly in regard to a marriage made among your set.”
He was right. Her request was decidedly uncommon. Indeed, she had never heard of any other lady making the attempt. Father had been most displeased with her request, but in the end, he had relented. Perhaps because he had been eager to return to his attempts at perfecting his influence machine, it was true.
“My set is now yours,” she could not resist pointing out, because there was nothing else for her to argue, and the futility of her crusade grew more apparent by the moment.
A small smile curved his lips—sensual lips, those. Too full for a man. She had never seen the like on a gentleman before. But then, perhaps she had never taken the time to observe another gentleman’s mouth either. Before New Wycombe, no man had provided sufficient distraction to intrigue her.
While Izzy had been falling in love with Mr. Penhurst, Elysande had always been far too interested in the time she had been permitted to spend within Father’s workshop. She had suffered any number of balls and other social events with a polite smile whilst privately thinking of which cement she might next use or which manner of wire would conduct electricity with the most efficiency.
But now, Wycombe’s smile—a wolfish smile, a predatory smile, a smile that said he was a captain at the helm of this particular ship—drew her in with a vehemence no other man’s before had. The bothersome curl fluttered from its place behind her ear and tickled her cheek.
He was upon her before her muddled mind could make sense of his having moved, long fingers reaching for the tendril of hair and tucking it into position once more. His fingertips grazed her skin as he did so, and the result was a pure, unexpected jolt of sensation blossoming from the point of contact and radiating outward.
“Your set, Lady Elysande,” he said quietly, “will never, ever be mine. I hail from a different world, and though I may have been forced to take on this bloody title and role and all the burdens which trail along as accompaniment, I am not an aristocrat. I am not the sort of soft-palmed gentleman who has led you on quadrilles and waltzes in ballrooms. I have looked into the eyes of murderers, and I have witnessed the aftermath of crimes that would leave your coddled lords huddled in a corner, crying into their monogrammed handkerchiefs.”
His bluntness took her by surprise, as did his fervor. But it was the picture he painted with his words, more than anything, which held her in thrall. This was not the polite—albeit inept at courting—man who had spoken with her in the gardens at Brinton Manor. Or perhaps it was, but she had mistaken him. She had believed him an easy dupe, a man in desperate need of her dowry to restore the ruined estate he had inherited.
But he was not weak at all, and she could see that now as he loomed over her, the smile banished from his countenance. Nor would he be cozened or coerced. He was much more than she had initially supposed. A fearsome opponent. Which should have cowed her, or at the very least impeded her from binding herself to him in a marriage agreement. However, the realization had the opposite effect.
“I understand you are not like my other suitors, Your Grace,” she managed.
She ran her tongue over her lips, wetting them, and then the breeze picked up once more, playing havoc with that lone, disastrous curl. This time, it landed on the seam of her mouth, sticking there.
He reached it first, cupping her face and swiping his thumb over her lips. “Damn it. Your bloody hair is flying everywhere.”
His words were almost an accusation, as if he suspected she had intentionally called upon the wind and required her lady’s maid to assemble her hair into a loose chignon merely to exasperate him. There should have been nothing about his words or his actions that sent heat rushing through her.
And yet, it did.
She found herself leaning toward him. His thumb lingered longer than necessary, tracing over her lower lip once, then twice. A third time.
“Forgive my hair,” she said, which was foolish and nonsensical.
Her left hand, of its own volition, unhooked itself from her right and settled upon his upper arm. Beneath the layers of his coat and shirt, the strength and heat of him seemed to burn into her.
“I’ll not change my mind,” he told her.
To her shame, it took a moment for her whirling mind to comprehend what he referred to.
Oh, yes. My amendment.
“Nor will I,” she brazened, though in truth she was not nearly as confident as she pretended.
“You want to marry, and yet you have no wish for children.” His thumb was at the corner of her lips now, caressing.
She should pull away. Disengage. Remove herself from his intoxicating touch.
Elysande remained, telling herself that feigning imperviousness was every bit as strong as withdrawing. “As I said, it is not that I do not want children for the entirety of my life. Merely, it is that I do not want to be forced into bearing them now.”
“Forced.”
She sighed. “Is that not an accurate portrayal?”
His thumb swiped over her lower lip again, more leisurely this time. Almost taunting. “I would never force you to do anything you do not wish, my lady. I would not force any woman.”
He would not need to, she thought perversely. This man could persuade anyone to do whatever he wished. She had only to look to herself for evidence. She was already thinking that perhaps she ought to offer him a compromise.
I must not relent.
I must not relent.
I must not—
“Six months,” she blurted.
He stilled. “Forgive me, Lady Elysande, but I do not understand.”
“You wished for a prescribed allotment of time,” she elaborated. “Six months is what I require. The amendment can be altered so that I have six months to myself, our marriage unconsummated. After that time, if you wish for me to bear children, I…will.”
With that maddening thumb, he traced her upper lip, the bow there. “You hardly sound enthused, my lady. But no. I’ll not wait six months. One should be sufficient.”
She required the ability to single-mindedly pursue the completion of her prototype. No distractions, no husband to make demands of her. She would need access to father’s workshop, freedom of movement. Heavens, her poor cousin Lydia had been ill and confined to her bed for the entirety of her pregnancy. Elysande could not afford to be laid low in such fashion. As for the time he suggested? One month would not be enough time for her to perfect her work. Indeed, six was frightfully implausible. One? Utterly impossible.
“Five,” she countered, thinking of all the work ahead of her.
“Two,” he offered, rubbing her bottom lip.
Her lips parted, and he dipped inside for just a moment, so that she could taste the salty tang of him. So strange and masculine and…Wycombe. New Wycombe. Old Wycombe had never dared to place his thumb anywhere near to her mouth, and indeed if he had, she would have been far more likely to bite it off than to find herself helplessly in his thrall.
That explained nothing of what she felt for the duke standing before her on the portico now.
She swallowed against a rising tide of dangerous, unwanted sensation. “Four months, Your Grace.”
“Three, and cease calling me that.” He painted the wetness of her saliva over her lips. “My name is Hudson.”
Three months. Could she do it? Did she dare agree to such a short amount of time, to such a tremendous concession when she had vowed she would allow none? Thoughts of Izzy’s happiness rushed to her mind. How could she bear to face her sister, having refused the only marital prospect she possessed? How could she begin anew, thrust herse
lf into an interminable round of society dances and balls and suppers? She could not.
Hudson.
A curious name for a curious man.
She liked it. And, to her dismay, she was intrigued by him.
She was going to be his wife.
Three months dedicated to completing her design and perfecting the electrical frying pan she had been working on diligently in an effort to have a prototype ready for the London Society of Electricity’s upcoming exhibition. Three months unencumbered by the marriage she was making, by the inevitable duties which would accompany it. She knew what was expected of a woman when she wed, how drastically her life changed, becoming no longer hers. Would that amount of time be sufficient?
Ever since Papa’s doorbell had been shown at the previous exhibition—much to the dismay of some, for its raucous peal had been truly unpleasant—she had been determined to see a design of her own on display. All the inventors at the society’s last showing had been men, and she dearly longed to represent her sex there.
To be taken seriously.
To step out from her father’s shadow and prove to the world that being a lady did not preclude her from having a viable mind or the ability to create something more intricate than embroidery or a sketch.
But she had been having difficulty determining the medium to conduct the electricity and the manner in which she would fasten it to the existing pan. Her attempts thus far had proven unsuccessful. The current had not passed through the pan evenly, leaving her attempt at frying an egg dismal at best. The oeuf in question had been partially scorched and part thin and runny. Quite dreadful. And she had been toying with her prototype for the last year already.
Still, three months would have to be enough. If it was not, there was every possibility she would have to move on from her hopes in that regard. Papa always said that one of the primary elements of success was knowing when to abandon an idea and when to pursue it. Perhaps an electrified cooking vessel was simply not meant to be.
“Three months, Hudson,” she found herself agreeing.
He removed his thumb from her lips and tucked the curl behind her ear once more. “Excellent.”
She stared up into that handsome face, convinced she had just lost in this war of theirs. Helpless to save herself.
Chapter 3
His wedding day had begun just like any other. Hudson had risen at dawn. One difference: he had taken considerable care with his appearance. A man ought to on the day of his nuptials, he supposed. To that end, he had shaved, dressed in his finest coat and trousers, and combed his hair. He’d thought about trimming his hair and decided against it. No need for Lady Elysande to suppose she was getting a gentleman as a husband.
And now, he stood within the Talleyrand Park chapel, sunlight streaming from a massive window over the altar and capturing both himself and his almost-wife in a gilded glow. He was sweating like a convict about to hang from a noose. The day was unseasonably warm. He had no wish to marry. But if he was not mistaken, neither did his bride.
She wore the look of a woman resigned to her fate.
Or mayhap, a woman at the funeral of someone she desperately loved.
They were not the only ones in attendance who were less than enthused about the morning’s ceremony. Indeed, there was a somberness to the entire affair. Her sister, Lady Isolde, pinned him with a glacial glare he felt between his shoulder blades even now. Her mother, Lady Leydon, could be heard lightly weeping. Lord Leydon had been grim yet stoic. Her twin sisters, Lady Criseyde and Lady Corliss, had been whispering to each other with subdued countenances. Her brother, Viscount Royston, had merely seemed as if he suffered from the after-effects of having spent the night cup-shot.
As the clergyman carried on with words Hudson knew sealed his fate forever, the undeniable drone of a snore rattled through the hushed quiet of the marble nave. Or perhaps that particular architectural marvel was fashioned of alabaster, as Lady Elysande had corrected him on the day she had agreed to become his wife. It hardly mattered what the bloody hell the cool stone was called. Hudson found himself dearly longing to press his overheated skull to it.
Apparently, his assessment of Royston had not been wrong. But then, he had become an expert at taking stock of every man in the room. As a detective, it had been a necessity, and his instincts had never led him astray. Just as he suspected they were not misguiding him now.
No one in Lady Elysande’s family wanted this marriage, to say nothing of the lady herself. There was a dearth of joyfulness in the chapel. Reasonably, one may have expected some small measure of levity from a wedding ceremony, aside from the solemnity of the vows.
A question, directed to him, suddenly jarred Hudson from his thoughts.
“Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as you both shall live?”
Here was the moment where he sold his soul for the sake of a dukedom.
I should say no. Run. It is not too late. London awaits. I could sell Brinton Manor and to the devil with anyone but myself.
But alas, he possessed a conscience, and the conscience told him he must carry on with his duty.
Perspiration trickled down the back of his neck. “I will.”
The clergyman turned next to Lady Elysande. “Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy Estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
Her gaze briefly flitted to Hudson’s. In the sparkling sunlight, he fancied they had taken on the color of sherry somewhere in their depths.
“I will,” she answered so quietly she may not have spoken the words at all.
Next, Leydon came forward in his role of officially giving his daughter away. Hudson felt the weight of a boulder on his chest as the minister joined Lady Elysande’s hand with his own.
He repeated the remainder of his vows in a rushed blur. The heat of the sun and the warmth of the day and the length of the ceremony blended together into one interminable purgatory. Lady Elysande offered her vows as well, her pleasant voice scarcely a whisper of sound. There was no reassurance in her words.
He placed a ring on her finger. Nothing fine or fancy. Just a simple, unadorned band of gold which had once belonged to his mother. Thankfully, it slid over his new wife’s delicate finger with ease, sparing him the embarrassment of a ring which did not properly fit.
“Let us pray,” announced the clergyman, suitably dour as one expected of clergymen.
Hudson and Lady Elysande bowed their heads. More words poured forth. Behind them, in the area of her seated family, another long snore rang through the chapel. The rustling of fabric could be heard, then what he could only suppose was the sound of someone’s elbow connecting with Royston’s side. The lord’s oof of surprise was punctuated by frantic whispering. Although he could not discern the conversation, there was a definite hiss of anger punctuating the tone.
If the occasion were not so funereal, Hudson might have laughed. But then, he could not recall the last time he had experienced mirth. A long time ago, to be sure. Perhaps when he’d been a lad. The atrocities he had witnessed in his position at Scotland Yard had leached him of most forms of emotion. His life had become an endless string of duty, and this—his marriage—was just one more.
More words flowed over him, around him. Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder. And finally, a blessing. Followed by an amen.
It was done.
Almost lightheaded, Hudson finally escaped the sun and escorted his new wife from the chapel to the dining hall where the wedding breakfast was being held. The formidable room was decorated with a startling array of fresh flowers, which he could only guess had been harvested from the Talleyrand Park orangery. The massive table was draped in cloth and laden with fine porcelain and silverwar
e in preparation of the celebration.
Somehow, through the haze clouding his mind, he realized he was still holding Lady Elysande’s hand, their fingers entwined. Hers was small in his and clammy. He wondered if she was as overheated as he was. The lack of air in the chapel had been stifling, as had the occasion—a sentence for the rest of their lives. How much easier the prospect had seemed before the vows had been spoken. Before the signatures had been placed upon the register. He extricated his fingers from hers when they reached her chair.
“Are you well, my lady?” he asked, attempting to be solicitous as he helped her to seat herself.
Belatedly, he recalled that she was a duchess now. His duchess. How ought he to refer to her?
Your Grace? Duchess? Wife?
And bloody blast, why had a rule book not been inherited along with this cursed title and all the mountains of cousinly debt?
“I am, quite,” she answered, not making mention of his faux pas if she had taken note. “Thank you.”
“It was warm in the chapel,” he said stupidly.
Of course it had been. It was yet summer. He was still sweating. He extracted a handkerchief and mopped his brow. He felt as if he had been holding his breath underwater and had only just come to the surface for air.
“The day is quite unusually boiling for the time of year,” she returned politely, adjusting the drapery of her silk skirts.
“So it is,” he agreed with equal civility.
For the first time since she had entered the chapel earlier, he allowed himself the luxury of admiring her, of looking and truly seeing. There were no stains upon her gown as there had been on the last occasion their paths had crossed. Her dark hair had been swept into a Grecian braid, then knotted on her crown. Her cream silk gown hugged her ample curves and was pinned strategically on the bodice and skirts to reveal waterfalls of lace bedecked with seed pearls. A diamond and emerald parure glittered from her throat, ears, and wrist.
She was the picture of an aristocratic bride. Infallibly lovely. And yet, he could not help but to look upon her and experience the acute threads of resentment and desire tangling and twisting up inside himself.
The Detective Duke (Unexpected Lords Book 1) Page 4