by Lavinia Kent
“I know the boy better than you do, if you forgive me for saying so.” The duke patted the seat beside him, gesturing for her to sit down.
With some reluctance, she did. “If you persist in calling him a boy, I’ll be quite convinced that you are wrong. Swanston is a man.”
“It’s good that you think so, and I do not deny it. My son is a man, an admirable man. I think I keep him a boy in my mind because it was all so much less complicated then—before he became a man who sees each of his father’s flaws and remarks upon them. I have not always been a good father, but I do try. It is why I am here.”
Louisa had never heard the duke so serious, even when he’d spoken of his dead wife.
“I am sorry. I know it cannot be easy.”
“No. It is not.” The duke shook himself and turned to face her. “But that is not why I am here.”
She had hoped they would not get back to this, that the idea of lecturing her on marital relations had been one of the duke’s passing fancies—and that it had passed. “It’s not?”
“No. I came to warn you about Geoffrey.”
“Don’t you mean warn me about what will happen? I assure you that I know quite what to expect, and I certainly do not fear it. I even believe it to be an important part of marriage.” There, that was about as much as you could say to your groom’s father. You certainly couldn’t say that you’d been up each night that week, dreaming of it, lusting for it.
“That is what I am afraid of. You see, Geoffrey is not a normal man.”
“Your grace.” She hoped her tone said exactly what she thought of that statement.
“I am afraid that it is true, my child.” The duke patted her hand. “Geoffrey has had very little experience with women. A father does know these things. He has never gone through the things that most boys of his class do.”
“I see,” she said, although she didn’t at all.
The duke let out a long sigh. “I did try to help. I know it sounds strange, but a father does worry. And I discovered that the boy is almost afraid of women. He certainly cannot bear for them to be forward in any way.” The duke looked away from her, his own embarrassment clear. “There is no one else to tell you this, and I can’t believe that Geoffrey could ever be honest about it, even if he understands that there is a problem.”
“Are you saying that he can’t …” Louisa could not bear to finish the question. It seemed impossible—but then, nobody had ever guessed about John.
“Oh no. Certainly not,” the duke sputtered. “Or at least, I have no reason to think so. No, he is simply shy, unbearably shy. You would never think it of him, but it is true. He can be gracious with women, but that is as far as he can go.”
“Are you saying that I should … should take the lead?” She certainly could not ask the duke if he meant that she should seduce his son—although, she had considered that it might be necessary. Swanston did seem slow to act upon the flashes of heat she sometimes thought she felt between them. But, perhaps they existed only in her mind.
“God, no. That is the last thing you should do. I quite fear that if you are forward at all the boy may go running. He’s done that before. Or he might yell at you, order you to leave.”
A pain formed in her belly. If she weren’t careful she might be sick. This could not be happening. Not again.
“So what should I do? I did tell him that I longed for children. It seemed important to him also.”
“And to me. I do long for an heir to the succession. I do have other sons who may yet father children, but it should be Geoffrey’s child. For all our disagreements, I do see that.” The duke looked down at the ground. “Did you know that I was born a younger son? I was in my twenties when my brother died. I was never meant to manage things.”
“I see,” she said—and this time she did. It explained so much.
“I think the real key is that you must be a perfect lady, an innocent girl. I don’t know that I’d have felt the need to say anything if you were not a widow—a widow who’s been alone for several years. Pretend that it is your wedding night and that you don’t know anything. Let him take the lead. Do not be … enthusiastic.”
Even in the dark Louisa could sense that a deep flush was infusing the duke’s face. “I am quite afraid that if you had a love match before you may be expecting things—things that my son is not planning, assuming he has any knowledge of them at all. I am sure he will do fine with the basics, but that is all you must expect—the basics. And don’t scare him off. The lad is incredibly proper and has a very specific idea of how people should behave, of what is right. Look how he reacts to my antics—and that is all they are, antics.”
It was that last that convinced her there might be some truth to what Mirth said. Swanston had made it very clear that there were lines in the sand for behavior and that they must never be crossed. He had spoken of his father, his sister, and several of his brothers with disapproval in his voice. He’d told her that he liked her orderliness, her sense of purpose. He’d rarely complimented her looks, but he’d often told her he liked how she lined up the quills upon her desk.
Had Lady Perse been right: Had she jumped into the fire without thought?
“Oh dear, don’t look so worried. That was not the effect I meant to have. He is a wonderful man.” The duke said the last word with emphasis. “I am sure everything will be fine. Just give him time. I am sure that you can bring him around. I was actually quite pleased when I heard he’d chosen a woman of some experience. You’ll be much better for him than one of those useless young chits.”
It was Louisa’s turn to look down. “I am sure you are right. Everything will be fine.” She turned over her hand, which still rested under the duke’s, and gave him a soft squeeze.
“Just don’t rush him. That’s all I meant to say.”
“I won’t.” She felt some despair as she said the words, but she did mean them.
Swanston was a good man. He would be a good husband, a good provider, a good father for her children. If she had to give up some of the pleasure she had begun to hope for, surely that was a small price to pay.
“I will be going then.” The duke rose. “I do hope I have not upset you. I only meant to help. I wanted to make recompense for some of the mistakes of my past.”
Pasting a smile on her lips, Louisa rose with him and leaned forward, placing a soft kiss upon his cheek. “Thank you. I do trust that you meant only the best. And if you are right, it is certainly better to know ahead of time.”
Not another word was spoken as they walked back into the house.
There really was nothing to say—only a lot to think about.
“I suppose you know why I am here,” Swanston said as he stormed into Ruby’s parlor, his boot heels clacking along the wood floors.
Ruby looked up from the settee. Her feet were curled under her, and she had been enrapt in her novel, with a small pair of spectacles perched upon her nose. Hurriedly she pulled them off and slipped them between the cushions. “I do. I understand I owe you congratulations on the morrow, but I do not believe you have stopped by for those after all these last weeks of absence. And so, no, I do not know why you are here on the night before your wedding. Some men come for that last hurrah, but I never saw you as that type. Or do you intend fidelity? It would not truly surprise me, but …”
“Fidelity?” He hadn’t even thought about the word, much less the concept. A man stayed with his wife as long as his needs were met, and after that—after that he was discreet. Fidelity did not enter into it for a man of his class.
Ruby let out the slightest of sighs, and the barest glimmer of disappointment flashed across her face and then was gone. “So why are you here? Do you have questions to ask me?” She pushed herself more upright.
“Yes.”
Ruby raised a brow, and he sensed there was something he was supposed to know, to inquire about. But it was beyond his knowledge, as was this whole wife thing.
“I want to know a
bout the wedding night.” There, he’d said it.
A sound that could only be a sputter left Ruby’s lips. “I thought you knew how to do that well enough.”
“No. With a lady—how does one—I have never been one for gentleness—what does she expect …” He was rarely at a loss for words, but in this moment he had none.
“I believe that your fiancée is a widow; surely she knows that …”
Without waiting for her reply, he paced back across the room to stare out between the shutters of the window at the darkened street. “I need to treat her like a lady, I know that. I’ve been working on it. I hardly even look at her for fear she’ll see what I really want. I do know—I suppose I was just looking for a way to tell her that … Bloody hell. It was not supposed to work this way. I was not supposed to want her like this. I should have known better than to propose, feeling as I do.”
“Really, Geoffrey, I do think that Lady Brookingston is more than you think. Have you talked to her, discussed this with her?”
Ruby knew whom he was marrying? He hadn’t realized gossip spread this far across London. “Of course not. She is a lady. One does not discuss such things with a lady.”
The settee creaked as Ruby rose and walked to stand behind him. “I will repeat: She is a widow, and perhaps not as innocent as you would like to believe. There is something you should know. I had hoped you knew already. Sit and listen, and I will tell you …”
Why had he come here tonight? For a man who always had a reason for everything and who knew his purpose each and every moment, he suddenly found himself at a loss. Why had he ever thought that Ruby would be able to help him? What could she possibly know about being a lady? Feeling disgust with himself, he grabbed his hat from the table where he’d tossed it. “I must be going. I should never have come.”
“Geoffrey, stop. I must tell you …”
He did not bother to listen as he strode from the room and into the hall.
“Well, well, I didn’t expect to see you here.” The slow female drawl came from the steps leading to the upper chambers.
Knowing what he would see, Swanston turned and gazed up at the Countess. She stood dressed in black, slapping a crop slowly against one booted calf.
He nodded in her direction and continued on his way to the door.
“Really, Swanston, I do think you could at least stop for a word with a lady. You wouldn’t want me to feel slighted, now would you?” She took a step down.
He really did not need this at the moment. “I would never wish you to feel slighted, my lady.” He paused and turned to her, but did not take a step in her direction.
“No, I didn’t think you would. You never know who I might talk to if I were feeling … unsatisfied.” The last word lingered in the hall.
“Do forgive me. I have plans on the morrow and must be going.”
“Aah, yes, the wedding. I do wish you luck with that. She appears a lovely woman—quite tender, I would think, absolutely delicious. I was surprised not to receive an invite.”
“It will be a small affair.”
“And here I thought we were such good friends, Swanston. We have been through so much together.”
Feeling a slight distaste at the images her words brought, he nodded again and prepared to leave. “It will hardly be more than family. And now you must excuse me.”
“Aah, I thought you realized that I’ve never liked musts. And family only—does that include your dear sister?”
He heard the threat in her words, but now was not the time. “Goodbye,” he said, and walked through the door without looking back.
This evening had been a mistake. Hopefully tomorrow night would be better.
Chapter Sixteen
It was done. Louisa glanced down at the large sapphire that adorned her slender finger. The stone seemed to weigh her down, capturing something she had not realized was free.
The wedding had been lovely: His family had welcomed her warmly, the duke embracing her and giving no hint of his doubts of the night before. Bliss had looked very young and sweet in a gown of palest yellow, giving no indication of the spirited girl about whom rumors abounded. The rest of his family had also been there, though she had to confess that it would be weeks before she’d be able to keep them straight.
There had been one moment of worry as they left the church, when one of Swanston’s brothers—she wasn’t quite sure which—had released hundreds of doves. It sounded romantic, but the actuality of feathers and mess had been something else again. Swanston’s ears had turned red and she’d thought he was about to release a torrent of curses, but instead he’d simply stepped with care to the carriage and held out his hand to her, brushing what she prayed was only a feather from her hair.
They had not spoken of it in the carriage. Granted, they had not spoken of anything in the carriage beyond agreeing that the simple ceremony had been lovely.
He had not even commented on her misspeaking his long string of names during the service. She’d stumbled on “John,” memories of her last wedding blending with this one, and had not really even listened to the rest of the list as she attempted to repeat it.
It was good of him not to say anything; she had not wanted to mar this day with memories of that other one of years ago.
But now it was night.
She had seen hardly anything of her husband through the long day as his family swirled about them in a bright dance of color. Even after everybody left and it had been only the two of them for dinner, there had been little conversation.
The sapphire glinted in the candlelight as she continued to stare down at her hands. They were still, for once, despite her nerves.
Why did she keep wanting more from Swanston? Keep expecting more? He’d never shown her a different side, so why was she so convinced that it was there, waiting for some magic key to open it for her?
What drew her to him? What had made her say yes?
Lifting her eyes, she glanced into the mirror that sat above her new dressing table, and saw big eyes and tightly braided hair. That had been the one personal request Swanston had made—as she’d excused herself from dinner, he’d leaned toward her and asked her to keep the coronet of braids she’d worn for the wedding. Something in his steady gaze had unnerved her, despite the careful flatness of his tone.
Her night rail was simple: cut high, lying just above her shoulder blades, the thinnest edging of white lace against her skin. She’d bought another gown, something more daring, but after the duke’s words of the previous evening she’d hesitated, unsure, and instead worn this simple white shift.
She closed her eyes and let herself remember for just the briefest of moments standing between Charles and the fire on that other evening. Her chemise on that occasion had been equally simple and demure, and it had not seemed to put Charles off in the least.
Drawing in a breath, she stood and walked toward the high bed, the strange bed in which she’d never slept a night.
Laying her hand upon the counterpane, she gazed at the heavy brocade, grapes and leaves intertwining on the blue-upon-blue silk. The whole room was blue, of varying shades. She’d never slept in a blue room before. Her girlhood chamber had been light rose and the room of her marriage soft yellows and greens.
Had she felt strange when she’d come to that long-ago room? She couldn’t remember—not a single thing.
All she could think about was the present: about the man who would join her shortly, who would share this bed, this room, share everything.
Should she be standing to meet him?
Sitting?
If only there was a fire. She could picture herself waiting beside it in one of the high-winged chairs, a glass of wine at her side. A foot would peek out from the hem of her skirt, and she’d allow the neckline to slip low on one shoulder, perhaps baring the upper curves of her breasts.
Swanston would stare at her for a moment as he entered, taking in her carefully arranged image, and then she’d rise and move toward
him, letting the anticipation grow with each step. Her hands would lift to his shoulders, caressing him, easing back the gray brocade of his robe, and then …
No. That might be too forward.
What if the duke was right? And she had no reason to think that he wasn’t.
The bed was the safest place. She’d wait for him under the covers and see how he wished to proceed.
There was no light shining out from beneath her door, or at least very little, only the faintest glimmer.
Swanston paused at the door, his bare toes curling into the thick carpet. He leaned forward, resting his head against the wood. He had to be calm, to keep control. All day he’d struggled not to grab his wife and pull her into some discreet corner. His body ached for her, his cock stiff with need.
Even looking at her was difficult. When he looked he wanted, and he was not used to going without what he wanted. That was not true: He was very used to holding back, to allowing anticipation to build. Waiting caused fires to grow, caused ache to become need. But this was different—normally when he waited it was with the knowledge that satisfaction would be his any moment he desired. Now, he had to deny himself, had to deny his true desires.
He would take her, there was no doubt of that, but it would not be as he wanted—her splayed across his bed, wrists and ankles caught, his to command, his to fulfill or not as he chose, his to examine for as long as he desired.
No, that was not to be. He filled his lungs with air, forcing his body to believe what his mind already knew.
His wife was a lady—and ladies had very different needs than—oh, blast, he’d serviced enough ladies over the years to know that was far from true. But Louisa—he formed her name in his mind for the first time—Louisa was not like that.
He had to practice patience and restraint, be prepared to take what was offered and not ask for more.
Releasing the long-held breath slowly, he turned the handle and entered her chamber.
There was a single candle burning beside the bed, casting flickering shadows all about.
As he walked toward the bed, Louisa pushed herself up to sitting, taking the covers with her, holding them tight against her chest. Her eyes filled her face beneath the tight braids.