Let Sleeping Dukes Lie

by Emily Windsor

  “Enough.” Rakecombe rose, listing slightly, glad Jack had dragged him out but now wanting to thrash the bugger. “I am for bed as one is getting married on the morrow,” he pronounced.

  After unsteadily gathering cane and jacket, he veered past the strewn tables, toppled bodies and scattered empty chairs, before glancing over his shoulder. “And by the way, Mrs Russell’s garters were Pomona green with white lace trim.”

  Winterbourne and Kelmarsh could be forgiven for their stupefaction, as he wasn’t the rake of his name in any literal sense, but in his youth, before his world had ended, he’d dallied on occasion.

  The ladies had liked his discretion, but he doubted Mrs Russell cared any longer. He’d seen her on the street once, married again with five children and another on the way.

  He staggered up the stairs and out the door, nearly falling in a puddle – damn claret – when an arm slipped under his right shoulder.

  “Rakecombe, you old dog,” said Bram, chuckling.

  Another arm slipped beneath his left. “An unmitigated cur, I’d say,” Jack added, eyes moist with mirth.

  With his friends supporting him, or each other he wasn’t sure, they lumbered along whilst Bram and Jack quibbled over the parallels between botany and sexual congress. He winced and hoped to God that someone with more modern notions than Mrs Beckford had spoken to Aideen tonight.

  They meandered through Covent Garden, circumventing its various ladies of the night, and gradually quietened in their own thoughts.

  He could guess Bram’s – thinking of Sophie, no doubt, but peering at the marquess, he noted a slightly glum expression now the night was nearly over. Perhaps he’d invite him home for a nightcap. Winterbourne hid emotions not many saw.

  But then so did he.

  When he’d spoken of his impending marriage, he’d thought panic would be the main emotion flooding him, but instead a deep satisfaction had threaded its way down his spine.

  Thrilling, rousing but dangerous nevertheless.

  No more arguments from those sweet cherry lips. No more provoking insults or baiting words.

  The hoyden would obey him and be his forever.

  ∞∞∞

  Aideen hoped the duke didn’t expect her to obey his every word once they were married.

  Some men, she had noted, became most dictatorial once in the parson’s mousetrap, and indeed Mrs McNally from Ballyduff had her pin money deducted if she queried her husband in public.

  With thoughts akin to a lump of wet turf, Aideen lay like a corpse on the bed.

  Earlier, Mr and Mrs Beckford, Cordelia and herself had enjoyed a genial dinner to celebrate her marriage on the morrow, and although she had hoped Cordelia might join her for a late-night prittle-prattle, Mrs Beckford had sent them off to bed with a severe warning about wedding day wrinkles caused by lack of sleep.

  But sleep was not forthcoming; instead, a hundred different notions assailed her and now she’d be a crinkled sultana for the ceremony.

  Saints in their halos, tomorrow she’d become a duchess. Married to the pompous Duke of Rakecombe. His mother hadn’t even been to call, citing an unwell friend, but Aideen knew what that meant – she disapproved.

  Not only that but there was the wedding night. She hardly knew the man and yet…

  She would be naked.

  He would be naked.

  They would be naked.

  Together.

  Then again, she had heard some odd specifics about the English aristocracy and their nocturnal arrangements, so maybe not.

  A soft knock on the door halted her musings, and she prayed it wasn’t Mrs Beckford with more botanical advice for tomorrow night. She pretended to sleep.

  “Aideen?”

  Recognising the voice, she flung herself from the bed and threw open the door. “Sophie!”

  Hugs and tears were exchanged as she greeted her cousin with abandon. Cordelia stood behind, wielding a bottle of champagne in each hand.

  Aideen dumped the last vestiges into her glass as her friends lounged about the bed in various states of inebriation.

  “Has Mrs Beckford advised you about the wedding night?” asked Cordelia, scrunching her nose and chewing a ribbon. “I asked Mother, but she told me I shouldn’t worry about little things like that.”

  Sophie snorted, spilling precious champagne.

  “She did try,” replied Aideen, “but I told her I’d seen the kitchen maid and the footman in the stables when I was sixteen.”

  “You told my mother that?” Sophie screeched, hands held to her cheeks.

  “I had to. I couldn’t bear it. She had illustrations from Sowerby’s botany book.”

  “I didn’t get any illustrations,” Sophie groused whilst Cordelia’s head twisted from side to side in tandem with the conversation, huge innocent blue eyes avid with curiosity.

  “After your debacle, she probably felt it necessary.”

  Sophie sighed. “I do hope the duke will treat you gently. I like him tremendously, but he can be more than a little…”

  Aideen’s head nodded but her thoughts disagreed. She didn’t want the duke gentle. She wanted his hard, demanding body and searching rough hands, his raw knuckles skimmi–

  “Erm,” interrupted Cordelia, “if I could just ask, but…would anyone care to enlighten me?”

  Aideen and Sophie stared at one another, then down at their champagne glasses.

  “Does it have anything to do with nightcaps?” prompted Cordelia desperately. “I’ve noticed my father wears a nightcap if he wishes to join my mother in her bedchamber.”

  Opening her mouth, Sophie then closed it again.

  “Or curtain tie-backs? I know all about those,” Cordelia tried again, face frantic. “My aunt told me that matching curtain colours to their tie-backs is a pleasant subject to dwell upon when a husband visits you.”

  Opening her mouth, Aideen instead glugged champagne.

  Sophie stepped bravely into the breach. “I don’t believe I can imagine your Lord Oakdean in a nightcap. And that’s a good thing,” she reassured Cordelia, patting her hand. “You’ll just have to trust him and not listen to anything your mother or aunt says. At all. In any way. Ever.”

  “But…but…”

  “Have you not seen animals?” asked Aideen. “In the fields?” Surely her friend had noticed some strange behaviour in spring.

  Cordelia’s brow furrowed. “Playing?”

  Saint Ninnidh help her.

  “More…jumping on each other.”

  “Oh!” Her eyes widened to their limits but then lowered, shoulders easing. “You’re always teasing, Aideen. Honestly, a sip of champagne and you come out with the most ridiculous ideas.”

  Aideen smiled. She loved Cordelia immensely, but her friend’s mother had instilled a strange incorruptibility about her.

  “Well,” said Sophie, raising the remnants of her champagne. “I say we toast Aideen’s marriage. May it forever endure without nightcaps or curtain ties.”

  Chapter Nine

  Wrth gicio a brathu, mae cariad yn magu.

  Whilst kicking and biting, love develops. (Welsh Proverb)

  The one downside to Rakecombe’s wedding day morning was the sight of a sotted marquess and snoring earl in his normally immaculate study. The loiter-sacks slobbered over his furniture and had noticeably scuffed the silk.

  Had the twosome really been so deeply cut that they couldn’t find the guest chambers?

  He himself had awoken snug in bed, but perhaps Rawlins had lent a hand, in part earning his exorbitant wage.

  Considering the quantity of hashed goose, claret and brandy he’d consumed, Rakecombe felt rather well. No doubt, skipping chef’s breakfast had aided his agreeable constitution. A selection of pastries had been sent up but they’d wept with butter and he’d pushed them to one side.

  He shook Winterbourne’s shoulders as the chap drooled over his chaise, feet bare.

  “Gerroff, darling,” the rogue slurred. “Maybe later.
”

  “Get your hairy arse, darling, off my furniture. You have one hour to return home, scrub yourself clean and attend my wedding.”

  Blood-shot eyes opened. “It’s a nightmare.” They closed again.

  Slightly easier to awaken was Kelmarsh, who guiltily realised he’d sent no message to his wife about the impromptu nightcap.

  The two wastrels sluggishly gathered their thoughts and strewn waistcoats, and Rakecombe bustled them with indecent haste to the hall, denying them breakfast – in truth doing them a favour.

  Upon arrival at the main door, where his efficient butler stood with their coats, he promptly twisted to Kelmarsh as a thought had been preying on his mind this morning.

  “Should anything happen to me…in the future. Look after Aideen, won’t you? I need to know she’ll be protected.” His friend nodded, eyes grave and knowing. “And you also, Winterbourne. For some reason, she favours your acquaintance.”

  “Of course, old fellow,” he replied, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “But no more tristus canis today. We live for the moment as the future is forever just that. Now,” he said, running fingers through his immaculate hair despite a night on the chaise – how did he do that? “Have you anything other than black for your wedding? Or else the mourners… I’m sorry, guests may get the wrong idea.”

  Rakecombe thought for a moment. “I have an off-black waistcoat with charcoal thread running through it.”

  “Hmm. I’ll send something over. No need to thank me.”

  ∞∞∞

  Aideen sat. Twitched. Fiddled with her lilac wedding gown. Even her toes jiggled in the silk slippers.

  Everyone had abandoned her, citing the absurd notion that she needed some time to herself this morning before the big event. Time to gather her thoughts and to rest.

  She didn’t.

  Only when reading did she ever have restful thoughts, the story transporting her to another place, but she could hardly bury herself in a book now: the words would be a hodgepodge.

  Furtively, she gazed over at a purple box deposited on the side table.

  Sophie had brought it earlier as an additional wedding gift, but she’d made Aideen promise on her lucky clover not to open it until tonight. What Sophie didn’t know, however, was that her lucky clover had never performed as wished and she’d given up on the dratted thing a year ago.

  The wedding gown rustled as she stood and meandered in a roundabout way to the box as though someone was watching her through a crack in the door. She skirted a chair and peered at the many flowers on the mantel – from everyone except her spouse-to-be.

  Well, if the entire family were going to leave her alone, what was she supposed to do?

  Covertly, she skimmed a finger under the box lid. There was something silky, something–

  “Miss Quinlan?”

  “I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me,” she shrieked, turning and knocking the box to the floor.

  A lady, and there was no doubt this was a lady, stood in the doorway. The Duchess of Rakecombe – soon to be addressed as Dowager.

  Oh heavens.

  With spine straight and head high, the duchess perused Aideen from mauve slippers to the violets in her hair. The lady herself wore an exquisite deep navy gown with matching pelisse – a fashion plate of sophistication, and even though Aideen was taller than the older female, she felt lower than a snake.

  “Miss Aideen Quinlan,” the lady repeated, her tone all hauteur.

  Was that a question or a statement or a command?

  “Yes, Your Grace.” She gave her best curtsey, kicking the box under the table.

  “Hmm. An unusual given name. It means ‘little fire’. Are you?” A fierce glare followed that question.

  Aideen considered a clanker, but they were to be related and she would only be able to hide her true nature for so long.

  “Yes. I have been known to be.”

  Her Grace’s eyes began to fill with tears and her lip quivered.

  Fiddlesticks, as Mrs Beckford would say.

  The small woman dashed towards her and Aideen flinched, but then…

  Uncle Seamus was good at hugs, hearty and strong; they smelled of smoke and wood. Mrs Beckford’s were appreciated, but always at a distance as they creased one’s gown. Sophie’s were mad and tangled.

  This lady’s was enthusiastic and heartfelt, arms surrounding Aideen’s waist, tight and sincere; she smelled of expensive silk and orange blossom.

  “I’m so glad.” The duchess pulled back, face wreathed in smiles, satin hands cupping Aideen’s cheeks. “I worried he’d marry some milksop miss and that isn’t what the boy needs at all.”

  Boy? “Erm, thank you.”

  “You’re perfect, my dear. I can tell. And us Celts must stick together.”

  “Celts?” Aideen stared at her imminent mother-in-law’s face as intelligent faded green eyes rolled in disgust. She was pretty, not in a handsome way but soft, like a peach, and age looked well on her.

  The lady elegantly seated herself on the settee and patted the silk cushion next to her. “Has Alex not told you anything about our family?”

  Aideen perched on the edge. “We’ve not had many…conversations.”

  “Oh, the naughty whelp.”

  “I didn’t mean–”

  She laughed, a delicate trill. “I was delighted when I saw him kissing you so ardently. I’d almost despaired of him, you understand. He needs to…unstiffen a little.”

  Aideen couldn’t contain a snort. “You are not what I expected, Your Grace.”

  “Pish, call me Meghan. I know he likes to act the priggish proper duke, but he conveniently forgets that his father and I eloped to Gretna Green.”

  “What?” Aideen gawped.

  “My, he hasn’t told you anything, has he? Are you sure you want him? We could travel to Egypt instead. I’ve always wanted to go and am seeking a suitable companion. We will get on famously, I can tell.”

  Aideen was used to Uncle Seamus talking at tangents, but she did enjoy Meghan’s thought process.

  Did Aideen want the Duke of Rakecombe?

  Unfortunately…yes.

  “Why did you go to Gretna Green? Did the then duke disapprove?”

  “Oh, gracious no, dear.” She leaned in. “My own father did! Isn’t that wonderful? I grew up in a tiny harbour village in north Wales. Gentlefolk, yes, but no title, and years in England has erased the accent. Anyhow, Alex’s father was in Wales for the air – my Matthew always suffered from delicate lungs – and we met whilst I was sketching the castle. It was love at first sight.” The lady sighed.

  Egad, and Aideen thought she talked a lot. “So why–”

  “I had more money in my reticule than his family did. His father, Alex’s grandfather, was an absolute gambling wastrel – lost everything. Of course, he had the entailed estate but it was not well-tended and so gave no income. My father thus considered Matthew of the same ilk, so we eloped, dear. Fortuitously, well, not to speak ill of the dead, but Alex’s grandfather died suddenly, and we spent years rebuilding the monies and estate – such happy times. Along came Alex and then Gwen. But my Matthew died of those weak lungs and then…we lost Gwen also.” She took an immaculate handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at rounded cheeks.

  Without hesitation, Aideen clasped the duchess’s hand in hers. “I’m so sorry about your husband; you must miss him greatly. And I apologise for my ignorance, but who is Gwen?”

  “Oh!” She scowled. “I’ll have Alex’s guts for garters. Gwen was his sister, my daughter, born four years after Alex. She was taken from us at eighteen years.”

  Aideen hugged the now sorrowful woman. The words “taken from us” allowed for so many interpretations, none of them good.

  “How truly awful. I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

  “’Twas long ago, my dear. At the time, it hurt like a mortal wound and though it still aches, I can breathe easier now. My Matthew used to say life is not life without bitterness, f
or how can we appreciate the sweetness. I am not sure Alex has learned this yet.”

  Meghan stood but not before another forceful hug. “I am so glad he is to marry you. And if you are concerned about society, as I was at your age, do not worry a jot, as we will be a twosome to be reckoned with. As for Alex… He needs someone to challenge him, to interest him, but even more, to love him. He is not the easiest of men, but I know he would be worth it. I know he could give so much, if he would only allow himself. So I hope you will come to love him, Aideen. See you in church.”

  A buss to the cheek and the scent of orange blossom departed.

  Aideen sat, her thoughts a jumble. The duchess’s words had struck deep.

  The question was not perhaps could she love him, but whether she already did.

  Chapter Ten

  WHITHER-GO-YE. A wife: wives being sometimes apt to

  question their husbands whither they are going. (Grose 1811)

  The aisle loomed ahead, an elongated path of fraught unease and enormity.

  And at the end of it stood her spouse-to-be. Or rather the back of him, as although guests had twisted for a glimpse of her, Rakecombe remained unperturbed.

  How typical.

  Mr Beckford patted her hand and cast a questioning glance, to which she responded with a smile. She herself had agreed to this wedding and a Quinlan never backed down, so grasping his hand firmly, too firmly judging by his grimace, the two of them meandered down the aisle as though they’d all the time in the world.

  Amongst the guests, Sophie fluttered her hand from a pew to the left and Jack winked from the right. Mrs Beckford cast a watery grin and Meghan positively beamed.

  Rakecombe still remained unperturbed.

  Finally, as her skirts rustled against his leg and Kelmarsh nudged him with an elbow, he tipped his head in her direction.

  It would almost have been a disappointment if he had smiled, a cliché. Firm lips held their place, cool eyes inspected and nostrils flared, so she merely raised a brow and then faced the man of God about to marry them.

  For the entire ceremony, the Duke of Restraint reigned supreme, his bearing officious and unbending as though a blade prodded his spine, skin like ice when their hands were joined in holy matrimony.