Knowing that the vows had been said, knowing that it was too late to undo what he’d done, he’d felt an uneasiness he hadn’t expected. Guilt? For what? She’d consulted with his solicitor. She was well acquainted with the terms of their agreement. She already had her very generous first quarter’s allowance in hand. She was going into this with her eyes wide open, even though they’d been shut at that moment.
Then she’d peeked at him, checking the progress of their kiss. He’d realized he had to go through with it or embarrass both her and himself. So he’d brushed his lips lightly against hers. And felt his whole body quiver in response.
He’d tried to end the kiss, but she’d leaned into him, and he hadn’t been able to resist the urge to continue the experiment, to see if he could determine what it was about kissing this uncommon girl that made all his senses suddenly come alive.
He’d wanted to taste her, so he’d slid his tongue along the seam of her lips seeking entrance. She’d opened her mouth, more from shock, he now believed, than anything else, but before he’d gotten the chance to satisfy his curiosity, she’d jerked away. He’d had the distinct impression that, if he hadn’t been holding on to her, she might have fled.
It was the wonder in her eyes when she’d looked up at him afterward that had brought home to him how much power he had to wound her.
Something he’d apparently done when he’d kissed her just now in the carriage.
He noticed her gloved hands were knotted tightly in her lap. He worried that, as unworldly as she was, Josephine Wentworth Wharton harbored some starry-eyed expectation of romantic love that he could never fulfill. He had no intention of falling in love with his mail-order bride. In his opinion, their marriage-for-the-sake-of-money precluded it. Besides, after the unbearable pain of losing Fanny, he wasn’t sure he could ever give his heart so freely and fully to another woman.
However, their recent kiss—in all its carnality—gave him hope that they might at least share the pleasures to be found in the marriage bed. Assuming he could make of his wife a willing partner. That seemed doubtful at the moment, although the thought of seducing his bride made their wedding night something he eagerly anticipated.
He darted a look at Josie and realized she hadn’t stopped looking out the window since he’d released her from that kiss. He would have given a great deal to know what was going on in that pretty little head of hers. He pursed his lips ruefully, in no doubt that when the time came, she would tell him exactly what was on her mind.
After he’d welcomed her to his home and introduced her to his servants, they had to entertain their guests at their wedding breakfast. Except, he thought wryly, his home was now their home, and his servants were now their servants.
As the carriage drew up to the front steps, Blackthorne wondered how well his American bride would cope with greeting a multitude of servants and meeting so many of his titled friends. His lips quirked. Whatever happened, it was bound to be out of the ordinary.
After being hurtled from church to carriage through gusting winds and lashing rain, his new duchess could very well have ended up looking like a drowned rat. But her wedding dress was only a little the worse for wear, and her blond hair had dried in soft curls around her face. Blackthorne realized she must have ironed her hair to get it to straighten. That led him to wonder what all those blond curls would look like spread out on a pillow around her face.
He cut off the direction his thoughts had taken. Time enough to think about such things once night had fallen. Right now, he needed to break the ice, to avoid any awkwardness between them when they left the carriage and encountered the line of servants that would be waiting inside to greet them.
The carriage suddenly stopped.
“We’re here,” he said.
“Oh, dear.” She turned toward him, her eyes wide and frightened, and he found himself reaching out to clasp her hand.
“Don’t worry. You’ll do fine.”
“After last night…The dowager said…”
His grandmother had left his bride in no doubt that she disapproved of her behavior at the supper table the previous evening. She’d admonished Josie to behave better—more like the duchess she would be—at the wedding breakfast.
He squeezed Josie’s hand reassuringly, but she continued staring at him, gasping air like a rabbit run to ground. He brushed his thumb across her lower lip, forcing her to release it from between her teeth. “I promise no one in my household will distress or discomfit you.”
If they did, he vowed to himself, they would have him, at his most forbidding, to answer to.
“I like your curls,” he said with a smile intended to ease her anxiety.
“Oh!” She reached up to touch her hair and appeared dismayed when she felt the tendrils about her face. “I must look a fright.”
“You look…fine.” He stopped himself from saying “beautiful,” or even “lovely.” Both words had come to mind. It wasn’t safe to think of Josephine Wharton, Duchess of Blackthorne, in those terms. She was merely the mail-order bride he’d married to save his estate. She didn’t love him. He didn’t love her. And if they were both smart, things would stay that way.
But he had no idea how he was supposed to get through his wedding night—with a wife he found incredibly beautiful and entirely lovely and completely desirable—without losing his heart.
JOSIE WAS CONFUSED by her behavior in the carriage. How could someone who’d reviled the Duke of Blackthorne for the past two years have enjoyed kissing him? And she hadn’t just enjoyed the experience, she’d reveled in it! She felt ashamed of herself. How could she have been so easily seduced by a handsome face and a reassuringly tender touch?
Put in those terms, she could understand why she’d succumbed to Blackthorne’s spell. It wasn’t the handsome face; it was the reassuring touch. It had felt so wonderful to lean on someone else, to grasp Blackthorne’s strong hand and know it was there to support her, even if it was only for a few moments at the altar. Once their vows were spoken, that hand was presumably there, along with that support, for the rest of her life. It was a heady feeling, to say the least.
She hated herself for being such a ninny, forgetting every bad thing the duke had ever done to his nephews—or to the girl he’d rescued—because he knew how to kiss a woman so her knees turned to jelly and her thundering heart felt as though it might burst.
Josie had been astonished by Blackthorne’s unexpected behavior on the steps of the church. The proud, remote figure who’d taken her hand at the altar was not the same man who’d scooped her into his arms and raced helter-skelter through buckets of rain to the ducal carriage. Seeing Blackthorne’s hair plastered to his face with rainwater, seeing it drip from his nose and chin and eyelashes, had suddenly made him seem human. She wasn’t sure whether he’d smiled first or she’d laughed first, but both of them were soon overcome with mirth.
Then he’d removed her spectacles, and something had happened. Their humor had dissolved as he stared at her, his eyes revealing wonder and what she finally—and stunningly—realized was desire. Her whole body had felt taut, as though she were being held captive by strong, invisible bonds. She’d waited, her breath coming in short pants, for whatever came next.
What happened next was that she realized she was human, too. That she was as susceptible as the next silly miss to a rake’s seduction. It made no difference that Blackthorne was her husband. He was still a virtual stranger, and that kiss had been…
Wonderful.
Josie chided herself for focusing on the feelings the duke’s kiss had evoked, rather than the audacity of the man who’d provoked them. She was an innocent bride. That kiss had been…
Beyond anything I ever thought a kiss could be.
When her spectacles splintered on the carriage floor, Blackthorne had broken the kiss. And she’d suddenly realized that his hand was cupping her breast. She’d stared down, watching as his thumb brushed across the satin, where the shape of her aroused nipple was
clearly visible, causing her to shudder with pleasure. She’d pulled away abruptly and angled her body toward the window, staring out at the people hidden under black umbrellas on the rain-splashed London streets.
Josie caught her lower lip in her teeth. She was remembering Blackthorne’s mouth moving on hers and his hand cupping her breast. She couldn’t believe how much that kiss in the carriage had affected her. Or how much she feared—and yes, also desired—the wedding night to come.
How could Blackthorne be so understanding and reassuring to a bride who was a virtual stranger and so unkind and uncaring to his nephews? Where was the selfish ogre who’d ignored her written pleas to rescue his brother’s sons from the untenable situation in which they found themselves? It seemed her new husband had two different faces.
Luckily for her, Josie had seen them both. Maybe the behavior she’d found so appealing was temporary, and Blackthorne was only being nice until the marriage was consummated, and he had the golden goose well and truly caged. Josie had made up her mind, as the carriage pulled up in front of Blackthorne’s mansion in Berkeley Square, to be on her guard, to watch and wait, in order to better gauge whether the duke’s current kindly attitude would last.
Blackthorne had explained before the wedding that she would be meeting his servants when they arrived at his home for their wedding breakfast. She hadn’t expected them to be lined up directly inside the door, wearing stiffly starched uniforms and crisply ironed aprons appropriate to their ranks within the household.
Josie thought back to all the times she’d been condescended to when neighborhood gentry had stopped by Tearlach Castle. As a maid-of-all-work, she’d been beneath their notice. Growing up in America, her feelings about equality had been bred into her, skin and bone. It was the character of a person that mattered, not his birth. She had a golden opportunity to put her beliefs into practice when she greeted the duke’s staff.
Blackthorne slid her arm through his, patted her hand, and said, “This is my wife, Josephine Wharton, Duchess of Blackthorne.” He then gestured toward the line of servants and said, “My household is ready to serve you in whatever way you may want or need.”
Josie slid her arm free and walked up to the first man in line and held out her hand for him to shake.
“Hello,” she said, giving the portly balding man her most engaging smile. “What’s your name?”
The servant looked at her hand and sent a glance toward the duke, before taking her hand, bowing stiffly, and announcing, “I’m Fairfax, the butler, Your Grace.”
“It’s so nice to meet you, Fairfax.” Josie smiled more broadly to ease the tension she could see in the butler’s shoulders, but a visible look of relief crossed his face when she released his hand and moved on to the next person.
A middle-aged, florid-faced woman curtsied and said, “I’m Mrs. Rooney, the housekeeper, Your Grace.”
“So nice to meet you, Mrs. Rooney. I hope we can be friends.”
“Oh. I couldn’t possibly—” The housekeeper looked toward Blackthorne for help.
Josie turned to face him as well. “Is there some problem?”
The duke pursed his lips thoughtfully before he said, “If that is my wife’s wish, you must follow her lead, Mrs. Rooney.”
“Oh, no!” Josie said, turning back to the housekeeper. “You must do what feels comfortable to you. I only meant I would welcome your friendship.”
The housekeeper’s lined brow furrowed more deeply at that suggestion.
“Friendship, Your Grace?”
That question, spoken with bewilderment, made it clear to Josie that she would be fighting an uphill battle convincing the duke’s servants to treat her like an ordinary person. She turned to peruse the line of footmen and lesser servants, and found all of them gawking at her as though she were some rare bird the duke had brought home that had begun squawking in Turkish.
Josie sighed inwardly. It was going to take time to change the ingrained habits of a lifetime. She would have to show the way. But her personal overtures could wait for another time, when the duke wasn’t standing there looking imposing and daring his servants to show his new bride any disrespect.
She greeted several footmen and as many maids before she reached the last person in line, a young girl who blushed as she announced, “I’m Gretta. Your maid. Your Grace.” The girl was obviously young and overwhelmed by the position she’d assumed.
Josie glanced at Blackthorne, whose face was void of emotion. She bit back the need to argue that she’d never had a maid and had no idea what to do with one. She suspected this was the work of Blackthorne’s grandmother, who’d been appalled when Josie admitted that she dressed and undressed herself, sewed her own clothes, and curled—or in her case, ironed—her own hair.
Instead she said, “Would you mind if Gretta took me to my room? I would like to repair my appearance before the guests arrive.”
“Of course. I’ll knock at your door and escort you downstairs in time to greet everyone.”
“This way, milady. I mean, Your Grace,” the girl corrected herself with a blush. She took off, only pausing long enough to curtsy to Blackthorne, before hurrying toward the staircase.
Josie followed after her, head held high, refusing to acknowledge her husband as she passed by him. She reminded herself that her stay here was temporary. It didn’t matter if she ended up as isolated and friendless in this house full of servants as she’d ever been at Tearlach Castle. Once she had custody of Spencer and Clay, she would be on her way back to America and a happy reunion with her family.
Josie was not entirely surprised that her bedroom had a door connecting it to the duke’s bedroom, but she was dismayed to discover that there was no lock. She wondered if Blackthorne planned to wander into her bedroom at will. That would never do. She would have to make it plain that she needed privacy.
“Don’t you wish to change, Your Grace?” Gretta asked.
Josie shot the maid a chagrined smile. “I haven’t anything else up to the occasion.” The dowager’s seamstress had promised her elaborate wardrobe would be ready soon, but she’d been focused on finishing Josie’s wedding gown.
Gretta opened a cupboard filled with beautiful dresses for all occasions. “What about one of these, Your Grace?”
“Those can’t be mine.”
“But they are,” Gretta insisted. “They were delivered today. I ironed them myself.”
Josie gaped at the cupboard full of elegant clothing—far more than she’d ordered from the seamstress. Obviously, the dowager had been at work again. She crossed to examine them and found a yellow princess sheath that reminded her of a field of daffodils. She was glad to see it buttoned up the front, so she wouldn’t need her maid’s assistance. She wasn’t willing to show anyone the scars on her back, especially not a maid who might gossip to the rest of the staff.
“That will be all, Gretta.”
“You don’t want help dressing? Your Grace?” she added belatedly.
“Thank you, Gretta, but I can manage on my own.” Josie waited for the girl to leave the room, then locked the door behind her. She turned to stare at the door between her room and the duke’s. Surely he wouldn’t enter without knocking. Nevertheless, she stepped behind a dressing screen in a corner of the room to remove her wedding gown—not without a little difficulty—and don the dress she’d picked from the cupboard.
That done, she sat down at the dressing table, leaned close enough to see without her spectacles, and peered at herself in the mirror. She took a deep breath and let it out. She’d made it through the wedding. She was pretty sure she could hold her own over the next couple of hours with Blackthorne’s titled friends. But a herd of buffalo was trampling through her stomach as she contemplated the night to come.
Josie had decided to wear something to bed that would discourage the duke from disrobing her completely. The garment she’d come up with contained enough material to keep him from discerning the raised scars on her back. She’d coaxed th
e dowager’s seamstress into making her a blousy flannel gown that tied at the throat and had long, full sleeves, claiming she was always cold at night in England. Then she’d personally added additional layers of cloth inside the back of the gown. She only hoped that would be sufficient to do the job.
The knock on her door was almost a relief. Josie jumped up and opened it, then took an involuntary step backward.
The duke had changed out of his morning coat into a dark blue velvet frock coat and buff trousers, along with a brilliant white linen shirt. But he looked no less imposing. And no less attractive.
“Are you ready?” he asked, lifting a dark brow.
“Yes. Only…”
“Is something amiss?”
“There’s no lock on the door connecting my room to yours.” Josie waited for the frown she expected to form, but Blackthorne merely said, “I hoped there would be no need for locks between us.”
Apparently, there had been no need for a lock when he’d been married to his first wife. Josie struggled not to give in to his subtle pressure to leave things as they were. “You agreed I would be making the decision whether you may enter my bedroom again after tonight. Or not.”
A smile flickered on his lips and was gone. If she hadn’t been watching his face closely, she would have missed it. She held her breath, wondering whether he would allow her a lock to ensure the privacy she sought.
“Very well. I’ll have a lock installed tomorrow.”
Of course she had to receive him in her bed tonight. But tomorrow, and every night after that, she had the right to refuse him. And would. She didn’t want to get any more physically—or emotionally—involved in this marriage than she already was.
Her husband held out his hand. “Shall we go and greet our guests?”
She took the offered hand and let him lead her downstairs, where they formed a receiving line at the door to the ballroom. The dowager and Blackthorne’s twin sisters arrived early and disappeared into the ballroom, but Josie didn’t recognize another soul for the next hour. She smiled until her jaw ached.
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