The Shy Duchess

by Amanda McCabe

Emily heard Nicholas stir beside her, felt his lean, hard body stretch and shift next to hers. He gently kissed her brow, and without opening her eyes she reached out to touch his face. His skin was warm, roughened by a morning growth of beard. Somehow touching him that way, waking up next to each other like this, felt more intimate than anything. Something very profound had changed last night, emotionally.

  “Have you been awake long?” he murmured.

  “Just for a little while.”

  “It’s still early. You should try to rest a while longer, before we journey to Welbourne.”

  “I’m not sure I can sleep in such a grand room,” she said. “It doesn’t feel like my own. I would probably get lost if I tried to even cross to the window.”

  Nicholas caught her hand in his and kissed it, his lips soft and lingering over her knuckles. “I want you to do whatever you like to make the room feel like your own,” he said, holding her hand against his cheek. “Make this whole cursed house your own! And Scarnlea Abbey, too. They are yours now, you are the duchess.”

  Emily opened her eyes to find him watching her closely, his eyes very blue and very serious, in the ripening morning light. “What if you don’t like the changes I make?”

  A tiny smile quirked at the corner of his lips. “I can’t imagine not liking anything you did. But even so, you must do whatever you want. Whatever will make you happy.”

  She hardly knew what to say. No one had ever trusted her taste or judgement before, or given her free rein to do anything at all. But she was sure she could make Manning House worthy of the title.

  Nicholas watched her now with an open, serious confidence, as if he believed she could do that, too. Even after everything—the hasty wedding, the disastrous wedding night. The tale of his secret marriage.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, and kissed his cheek. Those whiskers tickled at her lips and made her giggle. He reached up and brushed a stray curl back from her cheek, a gentle touch that still made her shiver.

  How could the slightest, gentlest touch from his hand do that? It made her want more, made her greedy to be closer and ever closer to him.

  And he seemed to feel the same. His gaze sharpened, and his fingertips trailed over the curve of her cheek, along her throat to her shoulder, bound by the thin strap of her chemise. His stare followed his touch, hungry.

  Emily was hungry, too. Filled with a terrible, aching longing for him.

  “Emily, I’m sorry for my behaviour last night,” he said. “You must have thought me a brute. And then when you listened to my confidences, let me unburden myself—I felt so much more free than I have in a long time.”

  She laid her fingers against his lips, stopping his words. She wanted no words today to shatter her fragile fantasy, her silly dream that this was some kind of real marriage. That illusion would vanish soon enough when they left this room.

  “We spend half our lives apologising to each other,” she said. “Please, Nicholas, not today. I’m glad I could listen to you. Your secrets are always safe with me.”

  He grinned, and she felt the soft movement of his lips under her touch. “No apologies, then.”

  Overcome with emotion, with painful longing, Emily leaned closer and kissed him. She threw her caution to the wind and put all that longing and all those foolish dreams into that kiss, and he responded. He took her tightly in his arms, pulling her close to his hard body until there was no longer anything between them. Nothing holding them apart. Maybe she could banish the memory of his first wife, at least for a time.

  The tip of his tongue lightly traced the curve of her lips, sliding inside to taste and tease. Tentatively, she used her own tongue, making him groan, which in turn made her feel even bolder. She caressed his bare shoulders with her palms and trailed her touch lower, over his chest. His skin was hot, like smooth satin over hard steel, roughened by a light sprinkling of pale gold hair. She felt the powerful beat of his heart under her touch, the strong, vibrant life of him.

  She traced the edge of his flat, puckered nipple with the side of her nail, and it tightened under her touch. Nicholas groaned against her mouth, and pulled her closer until she lay right on top of him. Their kiss turned harder, more frantic, deeper. A hot, humid, desperate need swept over Emily, and all her senses were filled only with him. The way he tasted, smelled, the way his body felt against hers. Nicholas—her husband.

  He caught her by the waist and rolled her beneath him, their legs and arms entangled. His kiss slid from her lips along her throat as she arched her head back in surrender. She felt the heat of his tongue over the curve of her shoulder, the sudden chill of the air on her skin as he drew her bodice lower.

  His mouth soon chased away any hint of cold. He kissed the soft swell of her breast, making her gasp at the fireworks-sparkling sensation of it. She combed her fingers through his hair, holding him to her.

  Nicholas captured her aching nipple deep in his mouth, rolling it over his tongue, biting at it lightly. Emily could hardly breathe, she was seized with the terrible pleasure of it all. She arched herself against his body, her legs falling apart instinctively to cradle him.

  Through her bright haze, she felt him reach down to catch the hem of her chemise, pulling it up over her legs, her hips, baring her to his gaze, his touch. He caressed the soft underside of her knee, the curve of her thigh as she pressed it against his hip. His fingertips lightly skimmed her backside, touching her fleeting, teasingly, there.

  “Oh,” she moaned at the jolt of lightning sensation. It was like nothing she had ever felt before. “Again, please.”

  He laughed and touched her again, a little deeper, a little harder. It was—wondrous.

  She traced the groove of his spine, feeling the damp, fevered heat of his skin, the shift of his body. She swept her exploring caress over his own backside, and the hard muscles tightened under her touch. She felt the velvety length of his rigid manhood against her inner thigh, and rather than make her afraid it delighted her. He did still want her.

  “Please, Nicholas,” she whispered. “Now, please.”

  He drew back from her a bit, his bright blue gaze wary as he stared down at her. “After last night? Emily, you’ll be sore.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I just—I just want this. I want it to be better for you this time.”

  He gave a humourless laugh. “Oh, believe me, Em. Last night was fine for me. But for you…”

  “Then show me now. Show me how it can be,” she whispered. “Please.”

  “Oh, God help me,” he groaned. He slid her chemise over her head and tossed it to the floor before kissing her again. There was no careful art to this kiss at all, only sheer, raw need. They fell back on to the bed, wrapped around each other.

  He nudged her legs wider and slowly eased himself into her. There was some pain, a stretching sensation, but no shocking tearing feeling. Emily knew what to expect now, and she arched her hips to draw him even deeper.

  He braced his arms to the bed, and held himself very still for a long moment as she became accustomed to that sensation of fullness. And any trace of pain flowed away, leaving only him and her, together. Slowly, he eased back and rocked forwards again, and then again.

  With each movement he was a little deeper, a little faster, until she learned his rhythm, they learned each other. That delicious, tingling pleasure spread through her whole body, to the very tips of her fingers and toes, and she sobbed with the joy of it.

  She closed her eyes and tightened her legs around his hips as he plunged into her, faster and faster. “Nicholas!” she cried out. “I don’t—I can’t…”

  “Just let it happen, Em. Let it—free!”

  And she did. She let go of all her control, all her inhibitions, and let it all burst free in a fiery white explosion of pleasure.

  “Emily!” he cried. His body tensed above hers, taut as a drawn bowstring. He suddenly pulled out of her and groaned deeply. “Emily.”

  Then he fell to the bed beside her, their limbs
still entwined. She felt the heat of his breath on her shoulder, as ragged as her own. His arm slid around her waist, holding her close, and she slowly reached out to touch his hair, to twine her fingers in the damp, silken strands.

  She felt weaker and more tired than she ever had in her life, and yet she also felt—lighter. Freer. As if she could run and dance and shout! As if she could do anything at all.

  His breath slowed as he slid into sleep, and Emily bent her head to kiss his brow. His arm tightened.

  She wished she could find words to thank him, to tell him what a great gift he had given her! But there were no words. They were all jumbled about in her tired mind.

  “Mama was so very wrong,” she whispered. And she curled up against him as she tumbled down into a dark, peaceful sleep.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Emily leaned her elbow on her travelling case as she peered out of the carriage, trying not to press her nose to the window glass like a silly, eager girl. She had been to Welbourne Manor before, of course, but never as a real part of it. It made her feel so very excited to be almost there now. She was a duchess now; she had to be dignified.

  Not that she had been terribly dignified that morning, in her bedchamber. She peeked at Nicholas from under the hood of her cloak, trying not to blush as she remembered the things they did together in that ridiculously vast bed. The way she clutched at him and cried out. And now that hours had passed, now that they were on their way to Welbourne, truly husband and wife, she did not know what to say to him. She only knew she couldn’t mention his secret again. That was in the past now; she wanted to build a future.

  So she resorted to the weather. “Such a fine day we’re having,” she said. “I was afraid it would rain.”

  Nicholas laughed. “It never rains at Welbourne. Especially when a honeymoon is planned there.”

  “Have there been many honeymoons at the estate?”

  “My sisters, I suppose. They were all married there.”

  Emily watched as the carriage turned in through the gilded gates of Welbourne, wide open in welcome, and rolled down a wide gravelled lane lined with shady trees. Beyond she glimpsed rolling green fields dotted with a few fluffy, picturesque sheep. In the distance was a small lake and a shimmering summerhouse, all custom-made for fun and pleasure and frivolity.

  “Would you have liked to be married here, too?” she asked. “In a place that belongs to you?”

  Nicholas reached over to take her gloved hand, bringing her gaze to his. He gave her a smile. “I thought our wedding was just right, don’t you? No crowds to stare at us.”

  Emily had to laugh at that. She was glad for a small wedding—she would surely have tripped and fallen in front of a crowd. “Yes, I did like that.”

  “And Welbourne is not mine. It belongs to my whole family.” He gestured out the window, and Emily saw that the house itself had come into view. A shimmering white Palladian villa rising like a wedding cake above bright flower beds, soaring exterior staircases and a profusion of sparkling windows. It looked like an illusion, a dreamhouse.

  “Now it’s yours, too,” he said.

  Emily watched, entranced, as the house drew closer. No, it could never be hers; she could never really belong there, not as Nicholas and his siblings did. But she was touched that he wanted her to belong there, that she was not being shut out immediately. She was touched that he trusted her.

  The carriage drew to a halt at the foot of the marble steps, and footmen in blue livery immediately dashed over to open the door and lower the steps. Nicholas stepped down first and helped Emily to alight, holding on to her arm as they went into the house.

  The entire staff waited in the soaring, light-filled foyer, which was bedecked with flowers and greenery. Footmen and chambermaids, the chef and kitchen girls, even the scullery maids in clean mob caps and aprons were arrayed to greet them.

  The butler, clad in his black coat, gave them a low bow. Emily remembered him from the house party, a quiet, efficient presence who seemed to know every inch of the estate. “Your Grace, may we offer our congratulations on your nuptials? Welcome to Welbourne Manor, Duchess. The staff is entirely at your disposal, and we hope you will be very happy here.”

  “Thank you, Gelray,” said Nicholas. “I would imagine you all never thought this day would come, eh?”

  Gelray stiffened indignantly. “Certainly not, your Grace. We would not presume.” An older lady in grey silk stepped forward to curtsy. “Duchess, this is Mrs Courtney, the new housekeeper here at Welbourne.”

  “I will give you a tour of the house as soon as you are rested from your journey, your Grace,” Mrs Courtney said. “You must let me know if there are any changes you wish to see made.”

  Emily remembered her wish for a guidebook to being the perfect duchess. She certainly wished she had one now. “Thank you, Mrs Courtney. I am sure everything is perfect just as it is.”

  The housekeeper’s lips pursed, as if that was not quite the right answer. Maybe she wanted a bossy, demanding duchess? “Let me introduce the rest of the staff, your Grace.”

  Emily was quickly introduced to Signor Napoli, the famous chef she remembered from her last visit as being quite temperamental. Today he was all smiles, promising to make her his divino trout à l’orange for dinner. She also met a vast array of people, whose names and faces blurred together in one vast whirl. Emily could hardly believe it. Welbourne was a small pleasure villa; what could the staff possibly be like at the grand ducal estate, Scarnlea Abbey, and at Manning House?

  “Your lady’s maid is waiting for you in your chamber, your Grace, if you would like me to show you there now?” Mrs Courtney said, as the staff rushed off to their duties, now properly introduced.

  Emily glanced at Nicholas, who nodded. “I will see you later at tea, Emily.”

  She hurried up the winding stairs behind Mrs Courtney, her head pounding. It was a relief to find the long, shady corridors silent and dim, lit only by chalky rays of sunlight from the high windows. Last time she was here, the halls and chambers rang with loud laughter and running footsteps as people played raucous games of hide-and-seek and blindman’s buff. Now it felt like she was all alone there.

  “It has been quite a while since the carpets were changed, your Grace,” Mrs Courtney said with a sniff. “And the curtains are becoming a bit faded.”

  Emily studied the limp draperies and pale carpets, the outdated furniture. “I see what you mean, Mrs Courtney. Perhaps new ones can be ordered soon, if His Grace’s sisters agree.”

  “But you are the duchess now,” said Mr Courtney. “It’s a very good thing for Welbourne to have a proper mistress at last. Ah, here is your chamber. I hope it will be quite satisfactory.”

  Mary already waited for her there, along with Emily’s trunks and boxes holding her new trousseau. It was a pretty chamber, all pink and white, filled with yet more flowers. Over the white marble fireplace hung a painting by Annalise, a view of Welbourne in the rich glow of an autumn day. The dressing table was draped with pink-and-white tulle, her brushes and pin boxes already on its glass surface.

  “Very nice, thank you, Mrs Courtney,” Emily said. At least the housekeeper did not suggest changes in here! Emily liked it just as it was.

  “I will send up tea and refreshments, your Grace. You need only ring the bell if you require anything else at all.”

  Emily sighed as the woman shut the door softly behind her. “It’s terribly grand here, isn’t it, my lady?” said Mary, voicing Emily’s own hidden thoughts. “I mean— your Grace. It didn’t seem that way last summer.”

  “No, it didn’t.” Emily took off her cloak and gloves and dropped them on to a little marble table next to a pair of cavorting china shepherdesses. Welbourne had seemed chaotic and shabby and fun last summer. Even her parents’ country house, the seat of the Earls of Moreby for centuries, did not seem so grand now. “I guess we’ll just have to be what this house needs, according to Mrs Courtney.”

  Mary gave her a d
oubtful glance as she shook out the cloak. “And what is that, your Grace?”

  “A proper mistress. Whatever that means.”

  “…and this is the small sitting room. Miss Justine— Lady Linwall now—often uses this room when she visits Welbourne,” Mrs Courtney said. She opened the last door along the long upstairs corridor, letting Emily peek inside.

  Her head was spinning with all the rooms she had seen on this whirlwind tour before dinner, all the large, airy chambers just made for parties and dancing. The house seemed too silent with only Nicholas and herself in residence, as if it waited breathlessly for the influx of laughing, merry guests. She was sure she could never be that “proper mistress” for such a place!

  But this room felt different. It was just as bright as the rest of the house, but smaller, cosier. A chamber for quiet conversations, for reading or sewing, or just thinking.

  Yellow brocade chairs clustered around the carved white-wood fireplace, while a small piano sat by the windows and a delicate gilt desk waited for a lady to sit there and plan the household menus or write letters. Yellow-and-white curtains were looped back, letting in the waning daylight outside.

  Emily’s gaze was caught by two portraits hanging over the mantel, and she went to examine them closer. Both the women wore the same silver satin-and-lace gown, and Emily recognised one as Charlotte Fitzmanning, with her heavy dark hair and watchful brown eyes. The other was a beautiful blonde lady, a lace fan in her graceful hand and a teasing smile on her lips.

  “That is Miss Charlotte—Lady Andrew Bassington now,” said Mrs Courtney. “And her mother, the late duchess. Miss Charlotte wore the same wedding gown last year.”

  “It’s very beautiful,” Emily murmured. She studied the duchess’s painted eyes, so full of life and happiness. She was a lovely lady; it was no wonder she had turned this whole family upside-down as she had. Her presence still seemed to hover over the house, like the memory of an exotic perfume.

  Emily almost laughed at herself. She might have this lady’s title now, but she would never take her place. Not until she stood up for herself and made changes to suit herself. There had to be a new way of being Duchess of Manning. She had already made a beginning there.