A Most Suitable Duchess

by Patricia Bray

  He blinked, certain he had misheard. “Chewed?”

  “Yes, chewed,” she said. “It seems your friend Mr. Dickson had seen fit to send a half-dozen dogs for your kennel. By the time I arrived, five of them had escaped, and it took us two hours to round them all up.”

  “Beagles? Southern hounds?”

  “I can not tell which breed, but the boy who brought them assured me that they were beagles. Five bitch puppies, and a year-old dog. Of Champion George’s lineage, if that means anything to you.”

  It did indeed. “Champion George was a legend, and his litters breed true to his form. Truly, Mr. Dickson has been more than generous.”

  A gift of puppies from Champion George’s line was a princely gift indeed. His own beagles were the smaller North Country breed, used most often as gun dogs. Until he had retired a few years ago, Josiah Dickson raised the larger Southern hounds, which were favored for hare hunting. Marcus had corresponded with Mr. Dickson over the past dozen years, forming a friendship. Often he had thought of experimenting with a cross of the two lines, to breed a heavier dog who could stand up to rougher country. Now, thanks to his friend’s generosity, he could do so.

  “Where did you put them? I should go see if they are all right,” he said, pushing his chair back and preparing to rise.

  “They are in the stables and you will do no such thing, Marcus,” Penelope said with mock severity. “The servants already think that we are mad. Having you rush away from dinner to inspect your puppies will only confirm them in their opinion.”

  “Very well,” he said, resuming his seat, although he could not repress his disappointment.

  “Honestly, you are like a child,” she said. “We must hope your own children show more patience.”

  It was the opening he had sought. He waited until the footmen had left the room, after clearing away the last course, and leaving him and Penelope with their tea, as had become their custom.

  “We never did talk about children,” Marcus said, gathering his courage in both hands.

  “No, we did not,” Penelope said softly.

  “Do you want children?” Even as he asked the question, he wondered what he would do if she answered no.

  “I suppose all women do,” Penelope said, her eyes fixed firmly on the table.

  “I can not speak for all men, but I know that I would like a family of my own. A son, and perhaps a daughter.”

  Penelope lifted her gaze to his. “I do not claim to be an expert in these matters, but if we continue as we have, then there will be no children,” she said. Her cheeks colored but she held his gaze firmly.

  “Then perhaps we should change our ways,” he said, feeling a tingling anticipation. “It would please me greatly if you would let me come to you tonight.”

  “I would like that,” she whispered.

  He rose, and gave a slight bow. “I will leave you, to give you time to make your preparations,” he said.

  “And so you can inspect the puppies,” Penelope said, with a twinkle in her eye.

  The puppies. Distracted by anticipation of what was to come, he had completely forgotten about the beagles that were awaiting his attention.

  “Right. The puppies. It will do no harm to see that they are set for the night,” he said.

  Ten

  There was such a thing as having too much time to think, Penelope decided. Perhaps it would have been better if Marcus had followed her to her bedchamber immediately, rather than giving her time to prepare.

  But no, for then he would have witnessed her disrobing. It was bad enough that she had had to deal with Nancy’s knowing smirks, as the maid helped ready her mistress for bed at this early hour. Having Marcus watch this would have been worse. Or heaven forbid, if he expected her help in undressing?

  Her cheeks flamed, and as she brought her hands up to her face she felt their heat. She quelled the brief panicky impulse that made her want to run from this room. Instead, after a glance at the flimsy lawn that was her nightgown, she went to her wardrobe and pulled out a silk robe, and then wrapped that around her.

  The heavy silk gave her a feeling of comfort, even as she chided herself for her foolishness. In a short while Marcus would see far more of her than was revealed by the lace nightgown.

  It was at this moment that she most missed her mother. She had only the vaguest idea of what to expect. The day before her wedding, Mrs. Lawton had called upon her privately, and offered to explain the marriage duties. It had been an intensely awkward discussion, couched in vague generalities, and allusions toward doing one’s duty. Rather than prolong their mutual embarrassment, Penelope had instead assured her mother’s friend that she did indeed know what was expected, and Mrs. Lawton had seemed relieved to have the discussion cut short.

  Not that she was entirely inexperienced. There had been those stolen kisses exchanged with Stephen Wolcott. Kisses that had been pleasant, and had left her vaguely yearning for something more. But before she could decide whether she would grant him further liberties, Stephen Wolcott had disappeared. And in the five years since, no other gentleman had stirred her feelings.

  And there was the knowledge she had gleaned from the natural history tomes that she and Harriet had discovered in her father’s library, and spent one afternoon giggling over. Not that she expected that knowledge to be of much use to her. After all, as creatures of reason, surely humans had evolved beyond the primitive instincts that governed the members of the animal kingdom.

  Her thoughts chased themselves in circles as she paced her chamber until she heard a rap on the door.

  “Enter,” she said, wincing as she heard her voice squeak.

  Marcus stepped through the door, and her breath caught in her chest. He wore a silk robe of midnight blue, which exposed the strong column of his throat, and emphasized his broad shoulders. A quick glance revealed that his legs were bare, and her eyes quickly rose back to his face as she realized that he was naked under that robe.

  Her heart began to beat furiously. Was she really ready for this?

  Marcus crossed the room slowly, and the warmth of his gaze kindled a warmth within her.

  “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?” he said in a husky voice.

  Penelope swallowed nervously. “I’m not, I mean I don’t know, that is—” Her voice trailed off, as her mind went numb, overwhelmed by his sheer physical presence. She realized for the first time how very much had been hidden behind the elegantly tailored clothes.

  “Hush,” he said, bringing one finger up to stroke her lips. “There is no need for nervousness. We will take things as slowly as you wish.”

  “Yes,” she breathed, her eyes fixed on the lush curves of his lips, wondering what they would feel like on hers.

  He smiled, taking her hand in his, then bent his head down and kissed her. His lips were soft and warm, and she felt herself begin to tremble as his tongue gently stroked her. Her fears melted away under his skillful touch, and when he lifted his head, she gave a soft moan of disappointment.

  “This is only the beginning,” he promised her, and she found herself eagerly anticipating the other delights he had to teach her.

  When Penelope awoke the next morning, she was alone in her bed. She had a vague memory of Marcus arising sometime earlier, kissing her on the cheek, and telling her to sleep as late as she wished.

  Arising, she saw it was nearly ten o’clock. What must the servants be thinking, she wondered. No doubt everyone knew exactly what had transpired last night. Any embarrassment she might have felt was swept away in the warm glow of her memories. Marcus had been gentle and kind, and in hindsight her fears seemed those of a foolish girl. Not that she had experienced the miraculous transports that the poets wrote about. But though it had been shockingly intimate, it had been exciting and rather pleasant, until the brief moment of pain when she lost her maidenhead.

  Marcus had assured her that once her body became accustomed to the act that she would experience even more pleasure
. She found herself looking forward to seeing if he was right. She wondered if he would want to be with her again tonight. Certainly he had seemed to find his own pleasure in the act, if his lavish praise was any indication.

  She rang for her maid, and instructed her that she wished to take a bath. Not even Nancy’s knowing smiles could dampen her good humor.

  When she saw Marcus that afternoon, she could not help the blush that stole over her face as she recalled the previous evening. But his manner was matter-of-fact, and the initial awkwardness soon passed.

  After lunch, Marcus invited her to join him as he took his new hounds for a training walk. His invitation was diffident, but she accepted eagerly, curious to see this side of her husband.

  After changing into a walking gown and sturdy boots, she met Marcus in the stable yard, where he was surrounded by what seemed a veritable swarm of hounds, and a tangle of leads. Penelope blinked, certain that there were more than the half-dozen hounds that had arrived yesterday.

  “A trifle unruly, are they not?” she asked.

  “It appears the journey has caused them to forget whatever training they may have had,” he said, shaking his head, as one of the puppies began chewing on his right boot.

  Standing aloofly apart from the scene, the older hound watched the puppies with an expression of disgust.

  In a few moments, with the help of the newly named kennel boy, the leads were sorted out, with Marcus taking three of the puppies, and the kennel boy Sam taking the other two.

  “Come,” Marcus commanded, and they set off, Penelope walking beside him. One of the puppies tried to investigate her gown, but a sharp tug on her leash restored discipline.

  The older hound followed at Marcus’s heels, the picture of propriety. Clearly the antics of the young puppies distressed him, and from time to time he growled at them if they tried to stray too far from their course.

  It was amazing how easily the puppies were distracted, and how difficult it was to keep the procession moving in an orderly fashion. She marveled at Marcus’s patience, as he stopped for the sixth time to untangle one of the leads.

  “How long does it take to train them to the lead?” Penelope asked. “Months?”

  “Not long at all. A week, perhaps,” Marcus said. “Today they are just high-spirited after their long confinement. And this place is new to them, so I dare not take them off leash. By tomorrow they will have worked off their excess energy and be better able to learn.”

  “They must be clever hounds indeed,” Penelope said.

  “Yes, well, the lead is only the beginning. Gun dogs work off lead, and need to be taught to follow their masters across all terrains, regardless of distractions. And to fetch game, of course.” Marcus eyed the puppies. “I will probably breed these bitches rather than hunt with them, but they must be trained as strictly as any dog. If they do not have the heart for it, then there is no sense breeding them, for their puppies will also fail.”

  Marcus’s face was animated as he expounded upon his favorite topic, and needed only the occasional comment from Penelope to encourage him. Really, in his way he was as passionate about his hounds as another man might be passionate about his politics or his poetry. It was an interesting glimpse into his character.

  It took them nearly half an hour to cross the south lawn, the need to supervise the puppies slowing their progress to a crawl. As they began to head back toward the stables, Penelope noticed that the smallest of the puppies was beginning to lag behind the others.

  “That one there is getting tired. The one with the white spot on her tail,” Penelope said.

  Marcus nodded. “See, she is smaller than her sisters,” he pointed out.

  Just then the small puppy stumbled over her lead, tangling her legs. She tried to stand but could not, and whined her frustration.

  Penelope knelt down. “There, hold on, little one,” she said. She unwrapped the leather lead from the puppy’s front paws and was rewarded with a brief swipe of the puppy’s tongue. The puppy stood up, then sat down again, panting.

  “She’s too tired,” Penelope said.

  “She’ll be back in her kennel soon enough,” Marcus said. He tugged at the leash, and the puppy obediently began to follow along with her sisters.

  All was well for a few minutes, and then the puppy sat down, and refused to budge.

  “I told you she was tired,” Penelope said. “I think you should carry her.”

  “No, that will spoil her,” Marcus replied.

  “He’s right, ma’am; you start carrying a dog and she’ll never learn nohow,” the kennel boy chimed in.

  Marcus fixed the kennel boy with a firm stare.

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am, Your Lordship.”

  “Please?” Penelope asked. “If you won’t, then I will.”

  Marcus looked at her and sighed. “She’s going to be spoiled,” he repeated. But he was already reaching down, and he picked up the small creature, who settled happily into the crook of one arm.

  “There now, princess, are you happy?” he asked the puppy.

  “Completely,” Penelope replied.

  Marcus laughed. “Come now, let us take these puppies home before we lose all sense of discipline,” he said.

  On the third Saturday in July, Marcus had the pleasure of escorting Penelope to the village fete. Not even the cloudy day could put a damper on her enthusiasm, or that of the country folks for whom this was the major event of their year.

  He watched bemusedly as Penelope strolled through the crowded streets, darting here and there as first one wonder then another caught her eye. She looked particularly fetching today, in a striped muslin gown, with a straw hat, and she collected her share of admiring glances. Indeed, unlike the gentry who had held reservations about the newcomers in their midst, the villagers welcomed their new duke and duchess with wholehearted enthusiasm, pleased to see that they did not consider themselves too grand to take part in such simple country pleasures.

  And no one was enjoying themselves more than Penelope. She had never been to a country fair before, and she was determined to see everything. He followed her like a besotted swain, taking pleasure in her obvious enjoyment. Her eyes sparkled as she watched the mummers perform and opened wide with wonder at the fire-eaters. He bought her colored ribbons for her hair, as if she was an ordinary village lass, and was rewarded with a kiss on his cheek. When he offered to buy her a hundred more ribbons if she would reward him with another kiss, Penelope blushed but demurred, much to the peddler’s disappointment.

  Later Penelope joined Miss Abercrombie for tea under the shady elms, while he acted as an honorary judge for the boxing matches. What the participants lacked in skill they made up for in enthusiasm, and there were several loosened teeth and at least one black eye by the end of the matches. Fortunately it was all done in a good spirit, and no one was seriously injured.

  As the twilight approached, Marcus made his excuses, and went to collect his wife. He knew from his own experience that as dusk came the strong drink would be brought out, and the crowds would become rowdier. The presence of the duke and duchess would only be a damper on these festivities. It was best that Penelope leave now, for the sake of her own sensibilities as well as those of the villagers.

  “Ladies,” Marcus said, sweeping off his hat and bowing toward Miss Abercrombie, Mrs. Fulton, and Penelope, who sat in a semicircle, chatting. “I trust you are enjoying yourselves?”

  “Very much so, Your Grace. And you?” Miss Abercrombie said.

  “It has been a pleasant afternoon. And now, if you will allow me to steal her away from you, I believe it is time for Penelope and me to take our leave.”

  Mrs. Fulton nodded. “I think it is time I took my leave as well. Before the dancing starts.”

  Penelope rose. “Dancing?”

  “Country dances,” Marcus said.

  “There are a pair of fiddlers from Little Moresby, and young Robby plays a tin flute,” Miss Abercrombie explained. “Nothing
fancy, but the villagers enjoy it well enough.”

  Penelope looked at him entreatingly as he took her hand to help her rise. “Can we? Please?”

  He could deny her nothing when she looked at him like that. And the minx knew it.

  “One dance. Just one,” he said and put her hand on his arm.

  He led her through the village, to the edge of the green. Indeed the dancing had already begun, and young couples galloped their way through what he assumed was a polka. Or perhaps a waltz. It was difficult to tell, for the fiddlers seemed to be playing two entirely different tunes, and the dancers had chosen to follow their own rhythms.

  “The duke and his lady,” a booming voice called out. He turned and recognized Bob Campbell, the burly innkeeper, standing next to an open keg of ale. “Come now, dance with us,” he urged them.

  The fiddlers scraped to a halt, and the couples on the green turned to stare at the latest distraction.

  “Show us how they dance in the great city,” one of the musicians urged, his face flushed with drink.

  Marcus swallowed. He had imagined a quiet dance, not one where he and Penelope were the center of attention.

  Penelope placed her left hand in his right hand. “Let us show them, shall we?”

  He took a deep breath. It was only a dance. It was not as if there was anything to worry about. Nothing, that is, save the very real possibility that he would make a fool of himself in front of his tenants. And his wife.

  “I make no guarantees for the tune,” he cautioned her.

  “Nor I for my footwork,” Penelope said. With her free hand she twitched up her skirt, indicating the half boots she wore underneath. “It has been a long time since I danced in anything other than slippers.”

  Her smile was infectious, and he smiled in reply as he led her to the center of the green, the crowd parting around them. He put his left hand on her trim waist, and then nodded toward the fiddlers.

  They began, in unison for a wonder, playing a tune called “The Bird in the Bush.” As the flutist joined in, Marcus led Penelope in the first steps of a waltz.