by Evie Dunmore
She framed his face in her hands. “Yes,” she said, “my answer is yes. Truth be told, I was close to crawling back to you to be your mistress, because even that began to look better than a life without you.”
He pulled her against him and his chest shuddered as he exhaled a long-held breath. “The only mistress you will be is the mistress of our home.”
She turned her face into his wet shirt, adding her tears to the rain. He was going to catch the cough because he had run after her without his topcoat. She swore there and then that he would never have to run or ride after her ever again.
“How can you still love me,” she said, her voice muffled by his chest, “after all the cruel things I said to you?”
She felt him smile into her hair. “Darling,” he said, “I have only just begun to love you.”
Chapter 33
April
Beneath the white blaze of the Mediterranean sun, a yacht was rocking gently on the Aegean sea.
Lounging in a nest of silken pillows in the shade of a canopy, her unbound hair playing in the warm breeze, Annabelle found that her eyes were falling shut instead of staying focused on the letter on her knees. After finishing her second term at Oxford, helping Lucie with her acquisition of a new women’s journal, getting married, and becoming a scandalous duchess in the space of two months, her body was finally demanding its due. Besides, the new bride of an amorous man was not afforded much sleep after sunset, so Sebastian frequently found her napping on the deck of the Asteria during the day ever since they had set sail from Saint-Malo two weeks ago.
She took another sip from her champagne glass, set it back down on the small side table, and selected a new letter from the looming pile of Sebastian’s unopened correspondence. Had it not been for her insistence, he would have left the whole stack behind untouched at his chateau in Brittany. He was enjoying his newly found laissez-faire attitude with his typical thoroughness. She had read two ignored letters from the new prime minister, William Gladstone, who tried to woo Sebastian to become a strategic advisor for the Liberal party, and from Lady Lingham, who, keen to make amends, offered to introduce Annabelle into polite society in a while, preferably as some “long-lost French nobility.” And this missive, holy hell, was from His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales. Sent months ago!
A splashing sound had her pulse kick up. She lowered the letter in her lap and watched as Sebastian’s head appeared over the yacht’s ladder, followed by the sculpted curves of his bare shoulders.
Her face heated. After they had set anchor at the Peloponnesian coast a few days ago, her new husband had taken one look at his swimming costume and had decided to dive into the sea naked as God had made him. And he was so, so well made. Tall and lean and gleaming wet in the sunlight, he was a sleek Poseidon rising from his element. Rivulets of water were streaming down his torso, across defined bands of muscle and slim white hips. He was already half aroused, and now her skin was heating up all over.
His bare feet left wet tracks on the smooth floorboards as he padded toward her. In his right hand, he held a glossy pink seashell.
He placed the shell next to her champagne flute and looked down at her expectantly. Here under the azure Greek skies, his eyes looked almost blue.
She smiled. “I see you come bearing gifts.”
“Treasures of the sea for Your Grace,” he said absently.
His gaze had homed in on where her silk robe had parted in the front and revealed soft, bare skin.
“You have a letter from the Prince of Wales,” she said.
“Bertie? What does he want?”
“Essentially, he says, ‘I didn’t think you had it in you, old chap. You were so dreadfully stuffy back at Eton. Come hunting with me in autumn.’”
“Hmm,” Sebastian said, his eyes glittering as if he were already on the stalk.
She couldn’t resist stretching languidly under his perusal.
He pounced and crouched over her, showering her and his correspondence with salty droplets.
She squawked and raised the letters over her head. “You are getting everything wet.”
“That is the intention,” he murmured, and began scattering kisses down between her breasts, pushing her robe open wide.
Pleasure throbbed through her at the hot, urgent feel of his mouth. She shifted restlessly as he kissed lower. “You, sir, are insatiable.”
“Are you complaining, wife?”
He licked around her navel.
“No,” she managed.
“No?”
His head lowered, and his tongue flicked softly between her legs.
She moaned. “No. Why, it’s my duty to please you.”
She felt him smile against her. “That is right.” He rose over her, then settled his weight on her fully. “And this pleases me very, very much.”
She bit her lip when he pushed into her.
“Very much,” he repeated, and his eyes lost focus.
She raised her knees higher, allowing him closer, and he gave an appreciative groan.
He rocked into her and it was not long until their cries mingled and he fell against her, his heart hammering against her breast.
She lay still beneath him as the rush of his breath against her neck slowed. Her fingers stroked aimless patterns on his sun-warmed back. High above, the sails were snapping in the breeze.
She tightened her arms around him.
How she loved him.
She had been worried that the price for being with him would be her hard-won slice of independence, but he had continued to be open to her needs and ideas. He had resigned himself to a two-month engagement to let her finish her term at Oxford after he had managed to have her place reinstated. If he had installed a protection officer against her objections, she never saw the man. His many letters from Brittany had the brevity and efficiency of estate reports, but that had made it all the sweeter to finally be in his bed again on their wedding night, where the intensity of his passion had told her more than words ever could.
He stirred and raised himself onto his elbows, his light eyes searching. “Are you sure you do not want to sail on to Persia tomorrow?”
She grinned. His hair had half-dried and stuck up rakishly.
She smoothed her hand over the ruffled locks. “I like it here,” she said. “It’s lovely, not having to do anything or be anywhere.”
“Hm.” He turned his cheek into her palm, and she felt the scratchy beginnings of a beard.
“Also, your brother enjoys meeting us for dinner.”
Peregrin was two bays away, helping Professor Jenkins with his excavation work on the battleship. Unlike Sebastian, who had to stay in the shade or become pink like a shrimp, Peregrin had turned bronzed and wheat-blond like a Viking in the sun. Being outdoors, digging and coordinating, suited him infinitely more than sitting behind a desk, and Jenkins seemed pleased enough with his unlikely apprentice. Pleased enough to recover somewhat from losing his prospective assistant bride to a duke.
“How about we stay for another week,” Sebastian said as he rolled off her, “and then sail to Persia.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Will you go hunting with Prince Albert in autumn?” she then asked.
He arched a brow. “Are you asking whether we are going to avoid England forever? We won’t. I believe your next term begins in May.”
She frowned. “You think our scandal will have died down by then?”
He gave a short bark of laughter. “No. Next year, perhaps.”
Sebastian surveyed his wife, looking rosy and tousled and ponderous, and a surge of love made him mount her again.
Her green eyes gazed back at him with a soft welcome. A smattering of golden freckles had begun forming on her nose. He dipped his head and kissed them.
Their scandal would probably never die down. He had changed his pl
ace in history for her.
It was his best decision yet.
Besides. He had a feeling that one day, history would squarely side with them, and he was usually correct about these things.
Author’s Note
Oxford University opened its first women’s colleges in 1879: Lady Margaret Hall and Somerville College. The universities of Cambridge and London had already been admitting female students for years at that point, but when Emily Davies, founder of the first women’s college at Cambridge, had scouted Oxford as a possible location in the 1860s, she found herself dissuaded by a strong “monastic tradition, rowdy undergraduates, a lively interest in gossip, and a large population of prostitutes.” Gilbert wasn’t wrong when he warned Annabelle that Oxford was a place of great debauchery. Nevertheless, the first female students thrived, though it would take until 1920 before they were allowed to fully matriculate and sit final exams like the male students.
Winning voting rights for women would take equally long: the Married Women’s Property Act was amended in 1882, two years after Sebastian’s speech in Parliament. The amendment allowed women to hold on to some money and property under certain conditions even after marriage. Yet it would still take another thirty-six years until women were allowed to vote or stand as MPs in the UK, so the work for our heroines had only just begun as the story ends.
Their most powerful opponent to women’s suffrage would have been their own queen. Victoria was enraged by the women’s rights movement. In 1870, she wrote to Theodore Martin that Lady Amberley, a then-prominent feminist, “ought to be whipped.” Woman, the queen feared, “would become the most hateful, heartless, and disgusting of human beings,” were she allowed to have the same political and social rights as men. Similarly, Elizabeth Wordsworth, the first warden of Lady Margaret Hall and great-niece of poet William Wordsworth, saw no need for women to have a role in parliamentary politics. Miss Wordsworth would later create another Oxford college for women, St. Hugh’s, out of her own pocket to help more women access higher education.
What appears to be a contradiction was the common attitude in the Victorian era: most people who supported better education for women did so because they believed it would make women better at their prescribed roles as mothers, homemakers, and companions to men. The idea that women should be people in their own right regardless of how this added value for others was so radical that suffragists faced opposition at every turn. Still they persisted. As such, women like Annabelle, Lucie, Hattie, and Catriona would have been extraordinary people indeed.
But even women pioneers need a place to call home, someone to hold dear, someone who cherishes them for who they are, so it’s been a great pleasure to write their happily-ever-after.
Note: I took some artistic license in regard to Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment—the book was not translated into English until 1885.
Acknowledgments
To finish a book, you need people who firmly stand between you and the life of a crazed hermit.
Bringing Down the Duke wouldn’t have happened without the support of a motley crew, and I’d like to express a heartfelt thank-you to:
Lord Robert, commander of pomodores and Master of Nudging.
Sir Richards III, whose edits were everything. Write your own book already.
Mum, who doggedly believed in the story without ever having been given a single page to read.
Oma, because I love you.
Mo, who slogged through first draft chapters rather than study for the bar exam.
Christian, Sarah, Jemima, and Nils, who showed unflagging enthusiasm where others rolled their eyes.
The British Romantic Novelists’ Association, in particular the fabulous New Writers’ Scheme, which gave me much-needed deadlines, wine, and words of encouragement.
Last but not least, The Lilac Wine Writers Kate, Marilyn, and Montse, who were there every step of the way from the plotting to the final edits. I’m forever grateful for our awesome team—your feedback, hospitality, and open ears made all the difference.
Special thanks to my brilliant agent, Kevan Lyon, and my wonderful editor, Sarah Blumenstock, for taking a chance on Annabelle and Sebastian.
Discussion Questions
1. What obstacles do you think Annabelle and Sebastian will face now that they have finally chosen to be together, considering the opposition their union will encounter in their social circles? How do you envision their first year of marriage?
2. At Lady Lingham’s Christmas dinner, Annabelle contemplates how experiencing passion has ruined her for otherwise perfectly eligible men. Is this something you can relate to? How important is passion in a romantic relationship?
3. There are several examples throughout history of British aristocrats who went against protocol and married their commoner mistress, a courtesan, or their favourite actress. Why do you think Sebastian chose Annabelle over his life’s work? What consequences do you think he will face?
4. Why do you think Annabelle rejected the position of Sebastian’s mistress even though it would have given her the safety net she badly needed? Do you agree or disagree with her choices?
5. When debating the trade-off between freedom and security with Sebastian, Annabelle quotes John Stuart Mill, who says: “It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied.” What do you think this means? Do you agree or disagree?
6. Annabelle and Sebastian navigate complicated gender and power dynamics as they build their relationship. How would you describe these? How do you think their relationship compares to modern standards?
7. The University of Oxford is an integral part of the book. Why do you think the author chose to set the story there? How does the academic setting impact the story? What does Oxford represent to you?
8. What do you think were the main arguments and worries against women receiving a higher education? How do you see these arguments played out in the book?
9. It is important to Annabelle that she continue her education, even after she marries Sebastian. Is education important to you? Why do you think Annabelle is so determined to receive her Oxford degree?
10. It took British women and their male allies nearly seventy years to achieve the right for women to vote in Parliamentary elections or to run for the office of Member of Parliament. Why do you think the process was so slow? How does it compare to the women’s suffrage movement in the United States?
11. Annabelle and her friends organize protests and lobby politicians to fight for their rights. What parallels can you draw to today’s political activism? How has political activism changed since then?
12. Both Queen Victoria, the most powerful woman in Europe, and Miss Elizabeth Wordsworth, the first warden of Oxford’s first women’s college, were against female political activism and women’s suffrage. Why do you think such influential and educated women would oppose women’s rights? What connections can you draw to present-day politics?
13. In order for the National Society for Women’s Suffrage to succeed, they needed to gain the support of influential male figures in the government. What role do men play in modern feminism?
Don’t miss Lucie and Tristan’s story, coming Fall 2020 from Berkley!
London, 1880
Had she been born a man, none of this would be happening. She would not be left waiting in this musty antechamber, counting the labored tick-tocks of the pendulum clock. The receptionist wouldn’t shoot suspicious glances at her from behind his primly sorted little desk. In fact, she would not be here at all today—Mr. Barnes, editor and current owner of half of London Print, would have signed the contract weeks ago. Instead, he was having her credit and credentials checked and checked again. He had done so very discreetly, of course. But she knew. There were things a woman could do just because she was a woman—such as fainting dead-aw
ay over some minor chagrin—and there were things a woman could not do just because she was a woman. And it seemed women did not simply buy a fifty-percent share of a publishing enterprise.
She let her head slump back against the dark wall paneling as far as her hat permitted. Her eyelids were drooping, heavy as lead. It had been another long night away from her bed. But she was close. Barnes had already agreed to the deal, and he was eager to sell quickly because he seemed in some hurry to relocate to India—some trouble with the British treasury, most likely. If she were serious about keeping the place, the side entrance would be the first thing she’d dispose of. From the outside, London Print had an appealing modern look, befitting an established mid-sized English publishing house: a gray granite façade four stories high on one of London’s increasingly expensive streets. The interior, however, was as dull as the publisher’s editorial choices—desks too small, rooms too dim. And the obligatory side entrance for the only two women working here—one woman, actually, after Mr. Barnes took his typist daughter to India with him—was nothing but a cobwebbed servants’ staircase at the back of the house. That entrance would be the first thing to change.
The tinny sound of a bell made her eyes snap open.
The receptionist had come to his feet. “Lady Lucinda, if you please.”
Mr. Barnes approached in his usual hasty manner when she entered his office. He hung her tweed jacket onto an overburdened hat rack, then offered her tea as she took her seat at his desk, an offer she declined because she had a train to catch back to Oxford.
More covert glances, this time from the direction of Miss Barnes’s desk in the left corner. Unnecessary, really, considering the young woman had seen her in the flesh before. She gave the typist a nod, and Miss Barnes quickly lowered her eyes to her typewriter. Oh, hell’s bells. One would think she was a criminal on the loose, not merely a figure in the women’s rights movement. Though for most people that amounted to one and the same. Most people gave radicalism a wide berth, lest it might be catching.