A Most Unusual Duke

by Felicia Greene

  ‘That’s a hoydenish comment to make.’

  ‘It would be hoydenish if you weren’t my husband. I can note your physical state—your desire. Wives are meant to please their husbands, are they not?’ Diana smiled. ‘Why won’t you let me please you?’

  They had never pleased one another enough. Harrow had insisted upon waiting; he had wanted marriage before doing something that could lead to Diana’s ruin. Now they were married, and she was wearing a gown the colour of sin, and…

  … and he wanted her. He wanted her enough to push her against the bookshelves, here and now, and slake his lust upon her until they were both too exhausted to continue.

  For a moment it seemed like the easiest thing in the world. All he had to do was reach out and touch her, feel the softness of her skin. But as he leaned forward, a sigh of surrender on his lips, a vision of his father doing exactly the same thing sent a wave of pure nausea through him.

  Of course his father had lied to Diana about it being a marriage in name only. The old goat would have loved to have a treasure such as this in his house. Harrow stepped back, briefly disgusted at the depths of his father’s mendacity, as well as his own inability to separate Diana’s past from their shared present.

  A marriage in name only. All he had to do was not want her—not want this. He forced himself to breathe slowly, his voice astonishingly calm as he faced Diana. It wasn’t her fault that he couldn’t forgive his father—she had committed other sins that he could hate her for quite comfortably.

  God, if only he could hate her comfortably.

  ‘You know why I can’t let you please me.’ He spoke as gently as he could. ‘You know full well.’

  ‘Because you’d like it too much.’

  ‘I… I have no doubt that I would.’ Harrow swallowed. ‘But I would have liked to be married to you too—and not as the second choice.’

  ‘That’s a cruel thing to say.’

  ‘Then I’m being cruel to be kind.’ Harrow moved away, unable to take his eyes off of her however hard he tried. Diana Montcrieff in pink was a sight to make angels sin. ‘Enjoy your morning.’

  ‘I won’t enjoy it alone.’

  ‘Then bear your morning bravely, as I will bear mine.’

  With a short, elegant bow, he left the room. He walked for several smug minutes, reflecting on how perfectly cutting he had been—before realising with a hoarse sigh of annoyance that he was still as hard as a rock.

  His mind could be very cutting indeed. Everything below the neck was a different matter. He would need to give himself a very stern talking-to, followed by a cold bath, before the business of the day could truly begin.

  The gown had taken great secrecy and great expense. Diana shook her head, smiling as she remembered the scandalised look in Madame LaJole’s eyes as she had requested the most special of commissions. She couldn’t visit her usual dressmaker—she couldn’t visit any respectable dressmaker, given her specific requirements—and had resorted to visiting a shabby-looking seamstress near Covent Garden, presumably with ladies of pleasure as its most regular customers.

  Despite her large bonnet and swathed shawls, she had been recognised immediately. Fortunately Madame LaJole was as adept at secrecy as she was at dressmaking, and had accepted the most unusual of commissions with an excitement that bordered on indecency.

  It really was a work of art. She looked down at her own body, displayed to perfection in the blushing pink silk, and felt a shiver of desire at the memory of Wesley’s eyes. He had noticed her, noticed her from head to foot, and the hardening of his breeches had been the most perfect sort of evidence.

  She had been too hasty, mentioning it. She should ignore his desire until it became unignorable. He would break in the end—he had to. It didn’t matter how many salacious gowns it took.

  A shadow passed over the window as one of the gardeners walked by. With a burst of movement that would have satisfied any dancer, Diana threw the nearest thick woollen blanket over her body with a small squeak of surprise. It was all very well, pretending to Wesley that half of the Witford staff had seen her in this dress—the reality, of course, was very different.

  She sat swathed in the blanket, trying to look at her book, unable to concentrate on a single word. Wesley’s face kept intruding into her mind, haunting her, the power of his desire—his frustration—causing similar frustration in her own body. A bone-deep, thrilling want that she hadn’t felt in years.

  The last time she’d felt it had been with him, thinking about it. How strange that she was married to him now, burning with want, and unable to tell him that it had always been this way.

  No. No time for considering the past. All that mattered was the future, and how it could include the carnal attentions of her husband. The gown had been a success, of sorts—her other strategems, more daring and complex, would be sure to win the day.

  She looked up, eyes wide, as Lavinia entered the room holding a feather-duster. The maid squeaked with surprise at the sight of her mistress, her shocked expression rapidly acquiring a knowing air.

  ‘Have we decided to sleep in the library for the morning, ma’am?’

  ‘I could decide to sleep in the middle of the garden, and no-one would be allowed to comment. Especially not an overly curious member of my staff.’

  ‘Of course. I shall chastise myself most severely.’ Lavinia began to dust the edge of a spotless collection of books, eyeing the edge of the blanket with a small smile. ‘And I’ll tell myself it has nothing to do, absolutely nothing at all, with the gauzy veils of pink I saw peeking out of the trousseau once the last of your things were moved in.’

  Lavinia had to smile, even if she knew by rights she should be furious. Lavinia had always taken liberties, given her lowly status—but she was wise and funny, and infinitely more friendly at heart than the most outwardly gushing society miss. ‘I should give you your notice.’

  ‘That you should, ma’am.’ Lavinia dissolved into giggles as she walked away, duster held limply in her hand. ‘That you should.’

  He should have known that the dress would be the least of it. Harrow didn’t know what seamstress Diana had started visiting when she made her trips to the centre of London, but the gowns she wore in the house had become… tighter. Or perhaps they were the same as they had always been, and the only difference was the lustful nature of his gaze. He found himself lingering on the swell of her breasts, the light but definite darkening he glimpsed at the meeting of her thighs, whenever he caught her unawares in any area of the house.

  That was the other piece of intrigue. He remembered Diana being content to stay in one place, reading a novel or finishing a particularly tricky piece of embroidery. Now, wherever he happened to be in the enormous property, she would be there too—often in an attitude that displayed her body to the best of its ability. Harrow wasn’t sure when his wife had become enamoured with copying the classical poses of the statues in the sculpture gallery, or attempting to reach the books on the highest shelves of the library, but he found her doing both things frequently—and wearing the filmiest, gauziest gowns while doing so.

  He had managed to avoid touching himself while thinking of her. It had taken hours of aggressive riding through rain and sleet, plenty of cold baths, and walking around the cold gardens at night instead of laying in bed and thinking of Diana. It had left him cold, irritated, and stiff in more ways than one—but he had conquered himself.

  That is, until he saw her in the bath.

  She had set it up in his study, the minx. He had been yawning as he walked towards the little room next to his bedroom, not willing to look through records before falling into bed… and then he had heard the sound of splashing.

  Before he could stop himself, he was pushing the door open. Diana’s soft gasp stilled his hand; he stared at her for a long, silent moment, the image of her naked body burned into his brain, before he slammed the door shut.

  How he had dreamed of seeing her like that. She was even more beau
tiful than he had pictured; her full breasts, damp with rose-scented water, her nipples hardening in the cool air. The brief, illicit glimpse of the dark curls that framed her mound, cushioned in the ripe swell of her thighs, as she had stared at him without an ounce of shame.

  He couldn’t be weak. Weak enough to run back to the study, throw open the door and clamber into the bath with her, ripping his shirt off, pulling her body to his. Weak enough to give her all the pleasure he knew he could give. It was always a wrench, leaving her alone in a room, but this time Harrow felt physical pain as he walked away.

  He had given in that night. He had tugged himself to climax with barely-concealed anger, thinking of Diana in her bedroom on the other side of the house. The pleasure that had overwhelmed him was viciously strong, but unfulfilling—he had wanted to begin again as soon as it ebbed away.

  What was worse than his own weakness, not to mention Diana’s exploitation of it, was his creeping suspicion that at least one of the maids knew what was happening. A dark haired girl who frowned all the time—what was her name, Leonora? Lettuce?—always seemed to be nearby when Diana had constructed one of her tableaux, pretending to dust or polish something. Harrow had tried glaring at her, trying to call upon years of Witford authority, but the girl had stared back at him with a complete lack of deference.

  That was difficult enough. One didn’t wish to creep around one’s own house, avoiding eye contact with the servants and half-expecting to find one’s wife in a state of undress whenever one turned a corner. Of course, any normal marriage would consider a wife of such calibre a vast advantage—and with each day that passed, Harrow wished with increasing fervency to have a normal marriage.

  Increasingly boxed-in by his cunning wife and oddly knowing staff, he needed a period without stress. A long, tranquil stretch of time where he needed to do nothing but fish, smoke, and look at a horizon uncluttered by annoyance or desire.

  As soon as he had formulated the idea from beginning to end, of course, Diana had chosen to organise a ball.

  ‘I don’t see why you’re so irritated about it.’ She barely looked up from her invitations as Harrow stared at her, all dreams of fishing and smoking fizzling into nothingness. ‘It doesn’t break any of the terms we discussed. It is a Witford tradition to hold a ball at this time of the year, after all.’

  ‘Did my father remind you of that?’

  Diana’s eyes widened as she looked up. Lavinia, who had been tranquilly arranging the flowers that stood near the closest window, crept from the room without so much as a sound. ‘No. The ball is a tradition that everyone knows about.’

  If only she would take his bait now, when he was ready to fight. He could argue with her here and now, a real raging conflict that would end in torn clothes and breathlessness and… and… and things he shouldn’t think about, not now. Not when Diana was rising from her chair, the deep green of her gown as calm as her voice.

  ‘Do you wish to discuss it more deeply? I have kept the list of guests as it was last year—the butler has been most helpful. I have made small changes to the menu, but nothing that would invite comment. If we decide not to hold the ball, of course, that would invite more comment than anything else.’

  She was right, of course, but it didn’t make Harrow feel any better. He glared at the hem of Diana’s gown, distractedly realising that it was the exact colour of moss, before steadying himself with a sigh.

  ‘Of course. Nothing needs changing.’

  ‘And what gown should I wear?’

  Harrow blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I find myself unsure as to which gown is most suitable.’ Diana looked down at the green gown, gently stroking the skirt; Harrow followed her hands, mesmerised. ‘Green is a somewhat mournful colour.’

  ‘It doesn’t look mournful.’ Harrow paused, debating whether to say the words that filled his mind. ‘Not on you.’

  ‘Truly?’ Diana smiled. ‘How does it look?’

  ‘Festive.’ He was probably meant to say something seductive, but the truth came out regardless. ‘Like Christmas. Or like spring.’

  She did look like spring. Like the very first days of spring, shrouded in darkness but still full of promise. Harrow stepped closer, unable to stop his impulsive body as he gazed.

  ‘Like spring. How lovely.’ Diana’s voice was full of genuine delight. There hadn’t been any innocent conversations like this during their life together, not one; Harrow didn’t want to disturb the moment. It felt fragile, as if a butterfly had landed on his fingertip. ‘But I don’t think balls are the place for springtime. I must choose a different colour.’

  ‘Whichever you like. We can have a new gown made.’

  ‘No need. I have so many already.’

  ‘No. A new gown, for a new ball.’ Harrow leaned forward, only half-aware of what he was doing. She was simply so beautiful, and sharing the same space as he was—and she was his wife. ‘Whatever colour you like.’

  ‘Goodness. The colour of champagne, perhaps. Or moonlight. Or the night itself—dark blue.’

  ‘The night itself. A fine choice.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Diana smiled, a touch of shyness in her gaze. Harrow watched the corner of her mouth, wishing he could plant a kiss at the centre of its curve. ‘You can choose all my colours for me, if you wish.’

  For a moment, Harrow forgot the circumstances of their marriage. He forgot the hurt, the horror, the queasy sense of unreality that had come over him when he had seen Diana in Witford House. She belonged here now, more fully even than he did; she was his wife, the duchess of Witford, and he would buy her a gown in every colour of the rainbow. He would buy them, give them to her, and watch her dress and undress until the gowns were a quivering pile of silks and satins, and they were entwined in the middle of them…

  ‘A gown the colour of night.’ Diana reached out a hand; Harrow shivered as her skin touched his, her fingers gently encircling his wrist. The first time they had touched since their youth, and the sparks that flew through his nerves hadn’t diminished at all. If anything, they’d grown more potent with time. ‘But what about the other garments?’

  ‘The other gowns?’

  ‘No. The other garments.’ Diana stepped closer still, her palm moving to entwine with his, the sparks intensifying. ‘A woman doesn’t wear a gown and nothing else. You would need to choose my chemise, as well—all of my undergarments.’

  The vision of Diana in her undergarments was almost more erotic than the vision of Diana naked. Diana in undergarments meant he could undress her—could peel away each layer, kissing the skin beneath the silk. ‘And what colours should those be?’

  ‘Whatever colour you like. You’ll be examining them, after all.’ Diana’s murmur was as intimate as a touch. ‘I hope.’

  Hope. That was a strange word for what they were living through. Harrow had been hoping for separate lives, separate souls—or had he? With Diana standing in front of him, her hand in his, those hopes felt more like fears than anything else.

  True hope would require courage. The courage to look at his wife, and not think of anything else—anyone else.

  No. The vision of Harrow’s father rose in his mind, along with a laundry list of the man’s sins. He would have stood in front of Diana, as he did now—perhaps he had even held her hand, as he was. A cold, bitter shiver ran through him.

  ‘I don’t wish to change any of the arrangements.’ He swallowed, trying to make his tone more remote. ‘Continue as you were going to.’

  ‘I didn’t intend to show you any changes I wished to make.’

  ‘You told me that you wished to discuss any possible changes.’

  ‘And now I don’t.’ The firm set to Diana’s jaw let Harrow know that he had hurt her very badly. The knowledge didn’t soften him; it only made the core of hurt at the centre of him deeper still. ‘I will not require your suggestions.’

  ‘Good, because I wasn’t going to give any.’ This was almost as erotic as the conversation th
at he had preceded it—why did any words exchanged with Diana feel a hair’s breadth from the bedroom? ‘I shall leave you to your invitations.’

  ‘Good. Leave me.’

  ‘Gladly.’ Harrow spat the words, all pretence at politeness gone. Diana’s fiery gaze betrayed the anger in her too; they stared at one another, hands still entwined. ‘I only have peace when I’m away from you.’

  ‘You know full well how you’d find peace, and you refuse to consider it however much I ask.’ Diana pulled her hand free, her mouth a grim line as she turned away from him. ‘I will see you tomorrow at breakfast.’

  ‘Don’t count on it.’

  ‘Then I’ll see you at the ball.’

  ‘Don’t count on that either.’

  ‘Don’t be idiotic. You’re many things, husband of mine, but you’re no fool.’ Diana half-turned back to him, the sight of her face tightening Harrow’s chest. ‘You’ll play your part at the ball, as I’ll play mine.’

  ‘Leave me alone until then.’

  Diana’s humourless laugh filled the room. ‘Please. You live for being plagued by me.’

  ‘That’s a lie.’

  ‘Then I’ll leave you alone until the ball.’ As soon as Diana said the words, Harrow regretted having asked for it. Damn the woman—damn how much he needed her provocations, her torments. ‘Now go.’

  Harrow obeyed. As he shut the door behind him, the sound of Diana’s sigh fractured his heart.

  The ball was glittering. It was spectacular from start to finish, with every guest speaking with rapt joy at how wonderful every detail had been. Every flower bloomed, every candle shone, every jewel sparkled at the throats of the beautiful women who attended.

  Only Harrow, fists clenched as he surveyed the aftermath, felt as if he had been part of a pitched battle.

  Diana had worn her gown the colour of night. The gown she had ordered from her seamstress, the gown that made her look like a goddess. The gown that Harrow had done his level best to ignore, even as he felt it rustle against his breeches as they entered the crowded room. The gown wasn’t what had made him angry, more angry than he’d been since the start of their marriage—but he would add it to the list of annoyances all the same. Not least because he’d wanted to rip it from her body from the moment he’d seen her in it, gliding into the room on his arm like a queen.