The Duke's Quandary (Entangled Scandalous)

by Hutton, Callie

  His mouth covered hers hungrily, nudging her lips open to his invasion. No longer shy with his kiss, she used her tongue to search out his mouth, quickening his breath. He pulled away and dragged the cap sleeves of her bodice down her arms to her elbows, releasing her breasts to his view. Using his tongue, he licked the nipples, and then drew an exquisite mound into his mouth.

  Her reaction was instantaneous, her body softening, gasping as he moved his mouth to bring her the most pleasure. His hands wrapped around her body, his fingers practically meeting over her slim back. The scent of her skin, the feel of her silkiness, was driving him crazy, making him want her underneath him, fully naked, calling out his name.

  “Drake. Please.”

  Yes. That was how he wanted her. Calling his name and begging. She pushed him away. “Drake. Someone is coming down the path.”

  He jerked his head up to the sound of footsteps approaching. What the devil was wrong with him that he couldn’t keep his hands off her in public? He quickly adjusted her gown and stood, almost dumping her to the ground.

  It appeared if anyone was going to disgrace him and his family, it would be himself.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The day Penelope never thought would be hers had arrived. Her wedding day. The nervousness that had troubled her the night of her debut ball was nothing compared to the shakes she suffered now. Her hands were cold and clammy, her heartbeat a rapid cadence in her chest, and her stomach threatened every moment to empty itself.

  She eyed the window, dismissing the fleeting thought of tying sheets together to climb out. As determined as Drake was, he’d only come after her. And that was another puzzle. He almost seemed happy about this disastrous marriage. He’d dismissed out of hand the numerous times she’d tried to convince him to cry off. Even more confusing, was his refusal to consider allowing her to break the engagement.

  She’d had her bath, her hair washed, dried, and brushed until it shone. As she sat on the edge of her bed clad only in her chemise, waiting for Maguire to swoop in and help her dress, she thought of the mother she never knew. Had she been excited and nervous on her wedding day? Had her parents’ marriage been a love match? Should she be sorry hers was not?

  Since she’d always assumed she would make her own way in the world, and devote her life to studying botany, sharing her life with a husband would be odd, different. But since plans had changed and she was to be married, it would be worth the effort to make it good. She was half in love with Drake already. Perhaps with some effort on her part, he would begin to feel something for her. Once they settled into their life together, she would begin her campaign.

  She would also attempt to convince Drake that botany was more than foraging around in the woods, pulling up plants. It was a respected science, and she wanted to continue with it. Hopefully, not under the cover of darkness. She could only burn up so many dressing gowns before her husband became suspicious.

  “Here we are, dear.” The duchess bustled into the room, breaking up Penelope’s reverie. Maguire was on her heels, holding the white silk and lace gown, embroidered in pink satin stitch and knots, with a pink ribbon under the bust. Penelope caught her breath as Maguire laid it gently on the bed. She’d never owned anything so beautiful in her life. The lady’s maid also carried the matching slippers and gloves.

  A straw bonnet with ribbons as wide as her palm to tie under her chin and trimmed with tiny roses completed the outfit.

  “Come sit here by the window, Penelope, and let Maguire arrange your hair. It is getting late and we must soon leave for the church.” Moving to stand behind Penelope, she placed her hands on her shoulders and viewed her in the mirror. “Who would have thought with all my daughters, you are only the second bride in our family?”

  “Mother, please say that you won’t cry your way through the service.” Abigail, followed by Sybil, Sarah, and Mary entered the room. Abigail was to be her attendant, and looked as beautiful as any bride.

  “Don’t be silly,” the duchess said as she wiped her nose and tucked a handkerchief into her pocket. “I never cry at weddings.”

  The girls exchanged smiles, and settled on the bed to watch the activity.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I join in the festivities, do you?” Marion, dressed in an out-of-fashion, but nevertheless, lovely rose-colored gown, entered the room, pulling on her gloves. All conversation ceased.

  Penelope turned, causing Maguire to scurry around to keep from dropping the strands of hair she worked with the heating iron. “You decided to attend the ceremony!”

  Marion came farther into the room. “Yes, I did. I could not allow myself to miss my oldest brother’s wedding. Especially since he’s marrying my good friend.” She walked to Penelope and gave her a hug.

  The duchess once again wiped her nose and tucked the handkerchief into her pocket. The girls bounded up from the bed and took turns hugging their sister, and exclaiming over her presence at the wedding.

  Her hair arranged in artful curls cascading down her back, Penelope stood, and Maguire carefully slid her petticoat and then the wedding gown over her head.

  “Heavens, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. We should have had Maguire slip your gown on before she fixed your hair.” The duchess fussed over Penelope, adjusting the sleeve of her gown, smoothing her hair back.

  “It is fine, Your Grace. We are a bit unnerved this morning.”

  The duchess cupped Penelope’s cheeks. “My dear, you are to be my daughter. You must dispense with this Your Grace business, and call me Mother.”

  Tears sprang to Penelope’s eyes. “I would like that. I’ve never been able to call anyone by that name.”

  “Oh, my.” Yet again, the duchess reached into her pocket and withdrew her handkerchief, patting her eyes.

  “Mother, it is time we left before you drown us all. Drake is most likely wearing out the carpet in church right now, driving everyone crazy.” Sybil stood and shook out her skirts.

  “Yes.” Her Grace clapped her hands. “Let us depart, ladies.”

  Maguire fitted the bonnet on Penelope’s head and tied a pert bow under her chin.” You look lovely, Miss.” She stood back and regarded her with a wide smile. “The next time I address you, it will be as, Your Grace.”

  A wave of panic and nausea swept over Penelope so strong she had to grip the bedpost.

  “Are you all right?” Maguire looked anxiously at her.

  “Nothing to be concerned about. Just a bit of nerves.” Penelope took a deep breath and raised her chin. “I will be fine.”

  …

  “If you don’t stop that pacing, I will tie you to a chair.” Coventry crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall as he observed Drake striding back and forth in the small space of the sanctuary at St. George’s Hanover Square.

  “What if she doesn’t come?”

  “Why wouldn’t she?”

  Drake pinched the bridge of his nose. “She has tried more than once to cry off, or even worse, have me cry off.” He ran his finger around the inside of his starched cravat. “My bride has some notion that she is not good enough to be a duchess. That she will fail me in some way, embarrass the family.”

  “And, of course, you have dissuaded her from this assumption?”

  “I have tried. More than once I told her Mother will take her under her wing, help her along, smooth things over, keep her from making mistakes.”

  “Ah. In other words, you hinted that you have no faith in her, so Her Grace needs to supervise your wife’s everyday life.”

  “Bloody hell. I didn’t say that.”

  “Perhaps not. But that may very well be what your fiancée heard.”

  He stopped pacing and regarded his friend. “As fond as I am of her, she is not the one I would have freely chosen.”

  “So you have said—many times, in fact. But I believe that you did, indeed, choose her—albeit indirectly. Which is why we’re standing here now, conversing on whether or not she will ble
ss us with her presence.”

  A stirring from the church door stopped Drake from commenting. Penelope had arrived in a swirl of white. The light behind her before the door shut cast her in an angelic glow. She looked fragile and scared to death. He could almost feel her shaking from where he stood.

  She hesitated, seeming unsure what to do as his mother and sisters took their seats. Hopefully not head back out again. To avoid that embarrassment, he strode down the aisle. By the time he reached her side and took her arm, her knees seemed to buckle, and he wished he had a vinaigrette in case she swooned. It had probably not occurred to his bride to carry one. At least, she’d had the sense to wear her spectacles.

  “You look beautiful, sweetheart.”

  Her eyes grew larger as she turned to him and licked her lips.

  He could feel the coldness of her fingers through her gloves and her body shaking as he pulled her close and walked her to where the rector stood. His bride was terrified. They needed to get this over with before she collapsed at his feet. “We’re ready.”

  Abigail moved to her side, Coventry to his. The Reverend Michael Jones opened the Book of Common Prayers and began the ceremony.

  No more than fifteen minutes later, Drake uttered the words that joined them together as he slid the gold and ruby ring on her finger. With this Ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

  After signing the Marriage Book and receiving hugs and congratulations, they headed out of the church and back to Manchester House. Although the service had been attended by only close family, a large wedding breakfast had been planned with all the important members of the ton expected.

  Once they climbed into the carriage and settled across from each other, he took her still cold hands in his. “Do you feel better now that the service is over?”

  “Yes. A bit.”

  “I know you had not wished to ever marry, but I promise I will try to be a good husband to you. If at all possible, your happiness will be foremost to me.”

  “Does that mean I can continue with my science?”

  He leaned back and blew out a sigh. “Dabbling in science is not an appropriate pastime for a duchess. You will have duties to perform, a household to run, servants to supervise. And,” he reached out to caress her cheek, his eyes darkening with passion, “eventually there will be children who will need your attention.”

  Ignoring the jolt to her insides at his comment about children, she focused on another part of his decree. “Science is not a pastime. It is my work.” She stiffened her spine. “I’ve spent most of my life ‘dabbling,’ as you so casually state, in botany—a legitimate branch of science.”

  “Let us not argue about it now.” He glanced out the window. “We have arrived home.”

  …

  The wedding breakfast was lively and fun. Her Grace—Mother as she wished to be called—had spent hours with Cook, deciding on the menu—a variety of breads, hot rolls, buttered toast, tongue, ham, and eggs. White soup, various fruits and dips, also added to the festive occasion. Pots of chocolate sat on either side of the buffet tables, and in the center of the main table, a lovely wedding cake.

  Before her departure, Aunt Phoebe had taken Penelope aside and congratulated her on an excellent match, and had ended with whispered instructions to just, “lie still, dear, and it will soon be over.”

  Confused at first at what her aunt spoke of, she was soon engulfed in heat, sure her face would catch fire. Oh, dear. Aunt spoke of the marriage bed. Hoping that constituted the end of her advice, Penelope hugged the woman and fled the minute Aunt gained the door.

  Each of Drake’s sisters had made it a point to take Penelope aside and welcome her into the family. Everyone expressed happiness at the match. If only she were as sure as they all seemed to be.

  She cast a glance at her husband, sitting next to her, conversing with Coventry. He occasionally touched her on the arm to get her attention, or clasped her hand. Each brush produced shivers that raced from his hand to her stomach, releasing tiny flutters not unlike miniature butterflies.

  “Your Grace,” Lady Coventry said, “we must plan an afternoon ride in Hyde Park sometime soon.”

  Penelope turned toward the dowager duchess. The dowager smiled at her. She smiled back. The silence grew. Her mother-in-law’s smile grew wider. Penelope began to fidget, suddenly aware that everyone was looking at her. She turned to Drake, tilting her head in question.

  “My dear, Lady Coventry is speaking to you.”

  She pulled back. “Me?”

  He grinned. “Yes. You are now ‘Your Grace.’”

  Her mouth formed a circle. “Oh.”

  The group erupted in laughter. Drake squeezed her hand, the mirth in his eyes warming her.

  …

  Later that evening, Penelope stared at herself in the mirror. Several lit candles on polished surfaces around the room illuminated the soft peach and white striped wallpaper behind her. Even though her gaze roamed over her familiar brushes, combs, and perfume bottles in front of her, it did not seem possible that this was her room now. The room that connected to that of the Duke of Manchester. Her husband. Who was now preparing to come to her.

  She ran her palms up and down her arms. If only she could stop shaking. The waiting was terrible.

  Before the thought had completely formed in her mind, the door joining her room to Drake’s opened. He hesitated for a moment as he studied her, then crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway. Goodness, had he always been that large? His shoulders almost filled the opening. Even in the scant light, the fluttering in her stomach started up again as she took in his unfashionably long brown hair, blond streaks skimming his forehead. The angular features of his face gave him a strong countenance that softened as he regarded her. “May I come in?”

  “Yes, of course. Please.”

  He shoved himself away from the door and grinned as he moved toward her, the flaps of his banyan robe parting to reveal strong, muscular legs dusted with brown hair. Her breathing increased as she realized he wore nothing under the robe. She fought the desire to flee.

  He removed her spectacles and placed them alongside her brush. “Are you frightened, sweetheart?”

  Frightened? She was terrified. But after her talk with the duchess and Marion, which disabused what Aunt Phoebe had said, also curious. And the kisses they had shared so far had left her with a strange feeling of missing something. No doubt in a few minutes she would find out what that “something” was.

  She shook her head. “Well—yes. Maybe just a little.” Amazed she was able to put that many words together, she inhaled deeply as he stared at her, the scent of his recent bath wafting up between their close bodies.

  “Has my mother spoken to you about what will happen tonight?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t necessary, since in my work with cross-breeding, I have discovered that in order to reproduce, you must take two different species. Well, actually not different species per se, but—” She stopped when in one forward motion he pulled her into his arms and lowered his head. His kiss started slow but soon turned burning and needy.

  Were he not holding her snugly around the waist she would surely have melted into a puddle on the floor. She was shocked at her own eager response to his lips on hers. She moved closer to his hardness and warmth, and felt a rumble in his chest and the tightening of his grip on her back.

  She clenched the sleeves of his banyan, the silky material bunching in her fists. Every thought in her head fled as heat pooled in her stomach and shot to her face, stopping along the way to set her heart pumping. She parted her lips, inviting further exploration from his brandy-flavored tongue.

  She couldn’t get close enough, knew there was something that would bring them closer, that would make her a part of him. Need for more, for what it was her body craved, made her frantic as the heat continued to build until she thought she wou
ld burst into flames. “Drake.”

  His large hands cupped her face and held it gently as he moved away from her lips and scattered tiny kisses over her eyelids, nose, cheeks, jaw, then along her neck. “Yes, sweetheart. Tell me what you want.”

  “I don’t know. It feels so good, but I also ache.” She moved her head to one side to give him greater access, which he took with eagerness, edging her nightgown off her shoulder with his mouth.

  “You will feel much better, soon. I promise you.” He eased her bodice down to her elbows, freeing her breasts to his eyes. His hands gently covered the mounds, kneading softly. “My God, you’re beautiful,” he groaned.

  Her head fell back at his words and the sensation of his palms chafing her nipples, hardening them, caused her to thrust farther into his hands. Frustrated at not being able to touch him with the gown wedging her arms to her side, she whispered, “Please, I want to feel you, too.”

  …

  Her softly spoken words almost unhinged him. How could an untried innocent make him burn this way? Not being able to keep his hands off her had gotten them into trouble already. The scent of roses from her bath, the softness of her body against his, and the taste of her lips, threatened his ability to introduce his wife to the marriage bed without embarrassing himself. He needed to get himself under control, and both of them into the nearby bed.

  “And you shall feel me, my sweets.” He swept her, weightless, into his arms and headed toward the bed.

  He slid her body down his and took her mouth in a possessive kiss, surprising himself with the savage intensity of his reaction. Shaky hands tugged at the sleeves of her nightgown, sliding the soft material past her curves to pool at her feet. Her brown and copper curls fell in disarray over her shoulders, tumbling down her back. His gut clenched at her ivory skin, smooth, creamy, and aching for his touch.

  Her green eyes, now a passion-deepened jade, fixed on his face, a slow siren’s smile teasing her lips. She skimmed her delicate hands up his chest, under the flaps of his banyan, and pushed it off his shoulders. Sucking in a deep breath, she ran her palms over his chest, sifting the crisp hairs between her fingers.