by Sylvia Day
“Not well, Your Grace—you look just like an angel.”
Jo laughed at the woman’s ridiculous comment, but inside she was singing as she recalled Beau’s expression from earlier. Of all the colors in the rainbow, this shade made her hair a more interesting red-chestnut and her eyes a mysterious green rather than their boring hazel. Tonight she had looked her best for him—far better than she had on their wedding day.
Your father is dying and you are thinking of gowns. What’s wrong with you?
Heat rushed to her head, accompanied by a sharp ache in her chest.
Yes, he is dying! And he has made the worst experience in my life even more agonizing with his cruel, horrid behavior. I refuse to let this crush all the joy out of this evening.
The thoughts were so ringing and clear that Jo wondered for a moment if she hadn’t spoken them aloud. But Mimi was smiling to herself and happily fussing.
It would be impossible to banish her worry and grief entirely, but Jo made a vow then and there to enjoy tonight and the time she and Beau spent in bed. As he had said last night, it was a place only meant for loving.
Jo smiled. Yes, she—
The sound of voices and several pairs of feet running interrupted her thoughts.
“What was that?” she asked, cocking her ear toward the hall door and then getting to her feet. “Hold a moment. I want to see what is amiss.”
“Your Grace, your gown is undone in the back—”
“I just want to take a quick look. I won’t go out in the hall.” She opened the door in time to see one of the chambermaids scurrying down the hall toward the guest rooms.
“Wait—” Jo grimaced, struggling to put a name to a face, but she came up blank. Still, the young girl came to a screeching halt and spun around.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“What is the matter?” Jo asked.
“A chaise and six have arrived, Your Grace,” she said, her eyes glinting with excitement. “The Duchess of Wroxton has arrived.”
“The duke’s mother is here? Is she alone? Have His Grace’s siblings come with her?”
“Not the dowager, ma’am, er . . .” She hesitated, her face a study of confusion. “Well . . .” She shook her head. “I dunno how she is called now—the other dowager duchess?”
Jo would have laughed if she hadn’t felt on the verge of casting up her accounts.
“You may go,” she said, as the girl was clearly anxious to be off to fulfill some order.
Jo shut her door softly and collapsed against it.
Victoria had arrived.
CHAPTER 7
“I thought you’d be pleased to see me,” Victoria said, her lovely face displaying pain, surprise, supplication, and a not-so-subtle suggestion of the erotic pleasures that awaited him.
She blinked her huge eyes up at him, her hands still resting on his shoulders after she’d rushed in and flung herself into his arms.
Thank God, she’d not done so out in the foyer with a half-dozen servants hovering.
When Beau took a step away, she followed, laying her cheek against his chest, her soft body melting against him. Whatever scent she wore—something floral and light and feminine—was the same as it had been five years ago and it invaded his senses, bringing a welter of memories in its wake.
Not all of those memories—or even most of them—were good.
Beau laid his hands on her shoulders and put her gently but firmly away from him.
There were tears on her cheeks.
Bloody hell! She’d not been playacting.
Beau pressed his handkerchief in her hand, as if that would somehow stem the flow. “Come now, none of that. Of course I am pleased to see you,” he lied with all the conviction he could muster. “Why don’t you have a seat,” he said, eager to put his desk between them.
She arranged her voluptuous body on the chair closest to him, her sinuous feline movements causing the predictable stirring in his groin. It didn’t seem to matter to his cock that Beau mistrusted and disliked the woman.
Victoria was a siren in the classic sense of the word, and her soft, alluring curves were more deadly than even the sharpest reef.
Beau had no intention of falling prey to her lures, but he knew that would require a tiresome vigilance—and it would also be wise never to be alone with her like this. Not that he didn’t trust himself, but, really, why take any chances?
So he cut to the chase. “I don’t understand the purpose of this expensive visit.”
Her turquoise eyes opened wide. “Expensive?” she asked, but then laughed. “Oh, you mean the chaise.” She shrugged, the provocative gesture rippling through her voluptuous body. “You can afford it now, can’t you? Besides,” she continued before he could answer, which was just as well, “how am I expected to travel—by mail coach? Are you going to stint me, Beau? Keep me on a small allowance? A short leash?”
Beau knew her provocative words and suggestive smile were meant to remind him of what had once been between them. He had to admit he experienced a slight flare of heat at the memory of their bedroom games, but the heat was quickly extinguished by all the other memories of their shared past—and the fact that he now had a wife.
“There was no reason to make this journey, but there are at least a dozen I can think of for you not to come to town at this time of year.”
“Ah,” she said, giving him a lingering scorching look. “I see.”
Beau sighed. “What do you see, Victoria?”
“You wanted me to be waiting for you at Wroxton Court when you came home.” Her eyes smoldered. “You wanted me to come to you, just as I used to do.”
Beau felt an unpleasant tingling in his scalp at the thought of Josephine finding Victoria tied to a bed in his chamber—or in his chamber at all. They’d only been married a day, but he somehow suspected infidelity would not be something she’d tolerate without a fight. Especially not under her own roof.
“I wanted you to do as you were told, Victoria,” Beau corrected. “Did you not get my response to your letter?”
“I did get your letter and it was positively draconian, darling!”
“And so you decided to disobey me.” It was not a question.
She shifted and sat up higher, reminding Beau of a hen fluffing its feathers. “You’re angry with me.” Her plush lower lip quivered. “I think you’d like to keep me in mourning—keep me for yourself—sequestered in Yorkshire, panting for you. I suppose now that you’re married, your wife will want to install me in the Dower House just to keep me away from you—and you’ll allow it.”
“Wroxton Court is your home and you never need to leave it—you know that. You are a Duchess of Wroxton.” He caught her gaze and held it. “But you are not my duchess, Victoria, and I will not tolerate any disrespect toward Josephine.”
Her chest rose and fell but it didn’t draw his eyes from hers. As veiled as her gaze was, he could see the struggle—feel the tension—taking place inside her.
“Now, tell me why you have made such an arduous journey when you will only find yourself housebound?”
Although, now that Beau thought of it, leaving her in London might be best for everyone.
She flashed him an accusing pout. “I know you didn’t want me here for your wedding—because of what we once were to each other. And perhaps still are.” She paused to allow him to confirm her suspicion.
Beau did not.
Victoria tacked smoothly. “The truth is it has been a wretched winter, brutally cold and dreary. I knew your mother wouldn’t allow me to come with her when they took the old coach down—you must know how unfairly she judges me. She has always hated me.”
Beau wisely reserved comment.
Victoria shrugged, the action drawing his attention to her magnificent breasts, which threatened to leap from what had to be the most seductive mourning gown in Christendom.
“Besides,” she said when he continued silent, “I have not seen Jo in forever. You know how close the two o
f us once were when we were in school together—like sisters.”
“You were schoolmates?” Beau kept to himself the opinion that it strained credibility to believe two such different women were ever friends.
“Of course that is where we met, but we became so much more after leaving Bath. Not only did we go to all the same parties, routs, and balls, but even that rather wonderful week at Lady Edelson’s country house.” She paused significantly, as if Beau wouldn’t recall the things they’d done at that party. “But I’m sure you recall darling Jo at that party as fondly as I do.”
Beau wanted to curse and stomp. Good God—a bloody house party? He’d already surmised from Moreton’s comment at the church that he must have met Josephine that summer. But a house party?
“Oh, no!”
His head jerked up and he saw her eyes widen at whatever she saw on Beau’s face.
That was when Beau knew he would have made a dreadful diplomat.
Goddammit! How can I be such a bloody idiot?
With very little effort, it seemed.
A tiny triumphant smile flitted across Victoria’s face before she raised an elegant beringed hand to her mouth, drawing attention to perfect bow-shaped lips that lovelorn, besotted fools—thankfully not Beau—had written odes about.
“Oh, Beau! Never tell me you did not remember she was at that party?”
His wretched face heated. But at least she thought his lousy memory was limited to the party and not his wife’s very existence.
“Well, that’s understandable, Beau. We were rather distracted back then.” She gave a throaty chuckle. “That is something of an understatement, isn’t it, darling?”
Beau ignored her question.
“Please tell me she does not know you don’t recall her being at that party, Beau. How crushing that would be.”
Yes. And how eager you look to crush her with such information. He sighed. So there was yet another uncomfortable piece of information he would have to disclose to his new wife before Victoria could wield it like a weapon.
“We were not speaking of my wife,” Beau said, taking charge of the conversation before it careened any more out of control. “We were speaking of you, Victoria, and what I’m going to do with you.”
“I’ve got several ideas as to—”
“Don’t,” he said softly but with enough menace that even she should know he was not jesting.
She cast her eyes modestly down as he studied her. Yes, it was better that she was here. After all, he hardly wanted her around when he took Josephine up to Wroxton Court for their wedding trip.
Josephine.
God help him. How was it possible he hadn’t remembered her from five years ago? If what Victoria said was true—always debatable—that meant he’d seen Josephine more than once or twice.
Josephine would have realized he’d forgotten her when he failed to mention their prior acquaintance. Beau grimaced, mortified to think how much embarrassment, if not pain, his omission had likely caused her.
“I brought Sarah with me,” Victoria said, her words jolting him from his orgy of self-flagellation.
“Good Lord, Victoria! What could you be thinking to drag a four-year-old on a cross-country journey at this time of year?”
Her beautiful face crumpled and she sprang to her feet, rushed around his desk, and dropped to her knees beside his chair.
“Oh, Beau—she is our daughter!” She grabbed one of his hands and brought it to her smooth cheek, nestling into his palm like a kitten. “Don’t you want to see her? We made such a beautiful child together and—”
“Victoria.” Beau tugged on his hand but she’d latched on to him like a bloody shore crab clinging to a rock. “Victoria,” he repeated through clenched teeth.
She gazed up at him through eyes sheened with tears. “I can see you are still angry with me for what happened back then and you have every right to be. But I love you—it has always been you.”
Beau stared in openmouthed wonder as a fat tear slid down one cheek and her lip trembled. The woman could cry on command—he was sure of it.
“Haven’t you thought of me even a little? I’ve spent so many days—and nights—wishing things had been different. Wishing I had acted differently.” She gave a violent shake of her head, the action sending her glossy black curls dancing. “You can’t know how hard it was. Jason wouldn’t leave me alone—even though he knew I was yours. He badgered me and—”
“Enough,” Beau said, revolted that she would tell such lies about his dead brother—a man who’d wandered into her snare with all the awareness of an infant.
Her eyelashes fluttered, scattering tiny diamonds onto the sweet curve of her cheek. “I’m sorry; that was wrong of me.” Her hands clutched him hard enough to grind his bones together. “But don’t punish me for what I did. Haven’t we both suffered enough? And now you’ve been forced into this dreadful marriage—”
“Victoria,” he warned.
There was a soft knock on the door and Beau knew before it opened who was on the other side.
CHAPTER 8
“Oh,” was all Jo could think to say as she stared at the tableau: Victoria kneeling beside her husband’s chair like a supplicant before her king.
Beau stood and helped Victoria to her feet before turning to Jo, his expression thunderous.
“Why, hello, Your Grace,” Victoria said coyly. “You look just as lovely as ever.”
Jo almost laughed at her masterful insult.
Beau, on the other hand, wasn’t in the mood for banter. His face looked carved from stone. “What did you need, Josephine?”
Jo flinched under his ice-cold anger but held her ground. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Wroxton, but Her Grace’s little girl—Sarah?” She cut Victoria a questioning look.
Victoria nodded, her full lips curled up at the corners, her expression that of a cat that had just licked up an entire bowl of cream. At Beau’s feet.
“Yes, what about her?” Beau prodded.
“She is crying—very upset, in fact—and is asking for a turtle?” Jo raised her brows.
Victoria’s expression snapped from lazily sensual to irritated and she huffed. “It’s Tuttle, her old nurse.” She cut a glance up at Beau, who was staring down at her, his face turned in such a way Jo could not see it. Victoria gave him a melting smile. “I told her that big girls didn’t need their nurses.”
“You left her nurse in Yorkshire?”
Victoria’s brilliant smile dimmed at his obvious disbelief. “It’s not as if I didn’t bring a girl to look after her, Beau. But Tuttle is too old to travel. Besides, it’s time Sarah started behaving like a little lady, not an infant.”
“Good God, Victoria, she is not yet five years old—she is an infant.”
“My, what a wonderful father you will make, Beau.” Victoria’s lips pulled up on one side into a sensual, wicked smile that made heat gather in Jo’s belly; she could only imagine what such a come-hither look would do to a man.
“Go see to the girl, Victoria. I will arrange for the housekeeper to send a suitable servant to assist whomever you brought with you.”
Beau turned away from her and strode toward the door, holding it open for her.
Victoria’s smile faltered at his autocratic dismissal, her expression shifting to mute outrage as she flounced toward the door.
Jo bit her lip to keep from smiling. So, her duke was high-handed with everyone, even a woman whom he’d once loved and still might.
He closed the door and returned to his desk, his expression distracted. “Was there something else, Josephine?”
Jo blinked. “Um, I thought . . .”
“Yes?”
I thought you might want to tell me what you were doing with Victoria on her knees? Or even why she is here?
Jo stared up into his face. It was expressionless now, but he’d been far from impassive in bed last night, and even this morning when he’d kissed her at breakfast.
Perhaps Jo was ma
king a mountain out of a molehill and he really did not care about Victoria as he used to.
But why had she been kneeling beside his chair?
“I want to have a word with Mrs. Stowers. Please send her to me when you leave,” he said, impatient.
Jo gritted her teeth. “Of course, Your Grace.” She spun on her heel, but his hand caught her upper arm.
“Come here.” He slid his other arm around her body and pulled her to him, holding her trapped as he stared down at her, his gaze intense. “I apologize for being short with you.”
He blinked after the words came out, as if he’d surprised even himself.
And then he lowered his head and captured her mouth, taking her with the sort of savage, wits-obliterating kiss at which he excelled. His eyes were dark when he released her.
“Go ready yourself for bed, Josephine. I will join you in three-quarters of an hour.”
* * *
Beau’s duchess was in bed when he entered her room. She was wearing a faded pink and white flannel nightgown buttoned up to her chin, and a scowl.
Beau paused for a moment to take her measure before speaking. She no doubt believed such a garment would dull his ardor. But the truth was he preferred his women naked and he viewed any gown—ugly or otherwise—as an impediment to be immediately removed. Still, she was obviously trying to make some sort of point and it would be unwise of him to ignore it.
She watched him in silence as he came toward her bed.
He held out his hand. “Come sit with me.”
Her jaw tightened for a long moment before she pushed back the covers and did as he bade.
Beau led her to the settee and sat beside her, as he’d done last night. Something about her expression made him feel it was best to keep her within arm’s reach.
“You are angry with me,” he said. “Tell me why.”
“Why? So you can then tell me I am not permitted to be angry?”
Beau supposed he deserved that. “Last night we agreed we would not take strife to our marriage bed. I wish to make love to you tonight—do you not want me in your bed?”
Her eyes widened and her lips parted.