“It’s nearly two o’clock!” Isabella exclaimed. “Surely he is up by now? Not that I want to run into him, you understand.”
Margaret shrugged. “From what I’ve heard, the new duke likes to stay up very late.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t worry about getting to know him after we’re married, since we won’t be awake at the same time,” Isabella replied.
Margaret’s laughter accompanied them as they walked outside into the fresh air.
As they walked, half of Isabella’s attention was on Margaret, while the other half was on her betrothed—she’d met him a few times in public, of course (and always in the evening), but he’d just scrutinized her with that intense gaze, and she’d felt herself start to heat up from the inside, wanting to fidget and squirm and do anything but be the focus of that stare—but knowing that her parents, especially her mother, would make her wish that unexpected body temperature was her biggest problem.
So she nodded, and murmured, “Yes, Your Grace,” and “No, Your Grace” if he asked a question. Even if the question required more than a yes or a no.
At least she wasn’t leading him into false expectations of what their marriage would be, she reasoned with herself. And if he thought she was an idiot, and he didn’t want to marry her, no matter what agreements had been made? Well, that would be the ideal solution.
Except—except at certain moments, when the two of them were looking at each other, she could have sworn that there was something there, deep in his eyes. Some yearning that made her want to reach out and touch him, to smooth his hair, to tell him that he would find what he was looking for.
That was the only thing that was keeping her from falling apart entirely, and she wasn’t certain if she was grateful or resentful of that fact.
And in two weeks she would be alone with him. Would be his wife for the rest of her life.
The ballroom was filled with most of Society, including many people who wished to meet the new Duke of Gage, but Nicholas had eyes for only one lady. A perfect lady, one who didn’t seem to have any emotion. At all. “She seems to be made of ice,” Nicholas muttered as he watched his intended walk out of the ballroom, her shoulders back, her hair perfectly coiffed, her gown lovely and fitting in all the right places.
“She might just be shy,” Griff offered.
Nicholas turned to his brother, who stood at his elbow, and gave him a skeptical look, at which Griff shrugged as though it was the best rationalization he could come up with.
Which just meant that Griff, too, thought she was icy.
Both of them had spent the day embroiled in dukely things, from deciding how best to allocate a loan that had been repaid, to agreeing to a new roof for one of the many barns on the property, to reviewing applicants for the estate manager position, the former manager having left when the former duke did.
Not to mention overseeing the installation of new furnishings for the duchess. His duchess.
He could have left everything up to the very capable upper staff who had come with the title, but somehow, despite everything, despite how cold she seemed, and how much he did not want this marriage, he wanted to choose everything himself. So he left Griff in the study to deal with some sort of field crop rotation, and he had tradesmen in to show him curtains, and bed linens, and coverlets, and all sorts of things he had had no idea were necessary for anyone to have.
And a bed, which was the only thing that was essential to him.
It irked him that he found her so cold and forbidding in her manner, and yet he wanted to possess her. He hadn’t had a woman since he’d become the Duke of Gage. He hadn’t had time, he didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize his tenuous respectability, he was too tired.
He could give himself any number of reasons for not doing what he normally did, but the truth of it was that he didn’t want any other woman. Not since seeing her.
He burned for her, counted the days—and nights—until their wedding night. Chose just the right colors to complement her vivid coloring, so her bedroom was decorated in shades of rose, from the palest pink to the deepest fuchsia.
Griff had begun to mock him, but had stopped on seeing the look on his face.
And the wedding was in two weeks. In two weeks he could peel away her clothing, and work on melting the shards of ice that seemed to encase her heart.
Never mind that he might be the one in a puddle after their joining.
Epigraph
From the unedited version of A Lady of Mystery’s serial:
“It is so different from anything I’ve known before,” she said. And it was true—there were strange, brightly colored birds flying overhead, people wearing clothing the likes of which she’d never seen, and him—her new husband.
The prince.
“Soon it will be as familiar to you as I am,” he said, his voice a dark promise that sent a shudder up her spine.
—THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL
Chapter 6
“Izzy?”
Isabella brushed the tears away from her cheeks as soon as she heard her sister’s voice. She cleared her throat and concentrated on making her voice sound as normal as possible. As normal as it could sound, given that tomorrow was her wedding day. Two weeks had gone by, each day bringing her closer and closer to him. To being his wife, to leaving here, to practicing her perfection. Perfectly.
“Come in,” she called, reaching up to smooth her hair, which had gotten mussed when she had flung herself, uncharacteristically and very unduchessly, onto the bed.
The door opened, and her sister entered, pausing as she surveyed the scene. “Did your stately demeanor explode or something?” she asked, walking to the bed. Isabella looked around guiltily, seeing the chaos she’d managed to create in just a few minutes—hairpins on the floor, pillows that were at the end of the bed, and perhaps the most damning, a hairbrush that had not just been pulled through her hair one hundred times.
So perhaps not all that chaotic after all.
Margaret bent down and began picking up the hairpins, making a chiding, clucking sound as she did so. “My lady must never try to do anything herself, what was she thinking?” she said, doing a credible imitation of their mother’s lady’s maid.
She dropped the pins into the bowl on Isabella’s dressing table, then turned to look at her sister, her expression showing her worry as much as her teasing usually did.
“Are you all right?”
Isabella couldn’t answer; the tears she’d been crying were choking her throat, and she could feel her eyes prickling as well. But this was Margaret, and Margaret, unlike everyone else in her world, would understand if she couldn’t answer, couldn’t be perfect every single second of every day.
“Oh, Izzy,” her sister said in a sympathetic tone, noting her distress, then getting onto the bed and gathering her sister into her arms. Margaret was slight, and Isabella was substantially taller, so it was not the most comfortable position, physically at least, but to Isabella it felt wonderful.
“You could run away, you know.” Margaret’s tone made it sound as though it were an entirely reasonable idea.
Isabella made a sound that in another woman, a woman who was not the most proper young lady ever who would eventually become a duchess, would have been deemed a grunt. “And just how can I run away?” She raised her head from where she’d buried it on Margaret’s shoulder. “All I know is how to be elegant and beautiful and perfect. I have no skills, no money of my own, and no clue how to survive.”
Margaret opened her mouth as if to protest, then snapped it shut again.
“Precisely,” Isabella said, wishing her sister had been able to argue with her assessment at all. Then she wouldn’t have felt so incredibly worthless. Because if her sister, who loved her most in the entire world, didn’t even think she could do anything else, then she definitely could not do anything else.
“He is quite handsome,” Margaret said, the tone of her voice revealing her skepticism. “At least you’ll have something
pleasant to look at across the breakfast table.”
“For the rest of my life,” Isabella said.
“Well, maybe he’ll tire of you and leave you in the country with the children.”
Isabella straightened on the bed and glared at her sister. “You are not helping.”
“Well, what do you want me to do?”
Nothing. There was nothing that anyone could do, not even Isabella herself. Primarily not Isabella herself, in fact.
And that was the problem. She wished, just once, that she had fought back against what her parents had wanted for her, what they’d done to her, as soon as they realized that their eldest girl was going to be as beautiful as she was.
If only she had been allowed to not be perfect, just once, maybe the thought of not being perfect in this marriage—a marriage she didn’t even want—wouldn’t terrify her so much. She wished she wasn’t so perfect—then she could just refuse.
But she was perfect, and her situation was not, and tomorrow she would be married to a brand-new duke about whom she knew two things: He was incredibly handsome, and he had very little experience with being a duke.
Whereas she was incredibly beautiful (she could admit it without false modesty) and she had a lot of training on how to be a duchess.
Which meant that going into this marriage they already had only one thing in common, and she didn’t think being attractive was what made a marriage work.
“Izzy?” Her sister nudged her shoulder. “You know that if you’re unhappy, if it’s worse even than being here, you can tell me. We will find a way to fix it.”
Isabella gave a dry chuckle. “The only way out of marriage, as far as I know, is death. And I do not wish to die.” She paused. “And I may not wish to be married to the duke, or to anyone, but I do not wish him to die. At least not until I get to know him.”
“That sounds like an excellent plan,” Margaret said. “And then, maybe—”
But whatever Margaret was about to say was lost as the door opened, revealing their mother, still wearing her evening gown, her face set in its normal disapproving expression. “Good, you are here,” she said, shutting the door behind her, her disapproving look replaced by one of firm decision.
Oh dear. Isabella felt her stomach start to tighten, the way it normally did when her mother had that look on her face. To be honest, her stomach hurt most of the time she spoke to her mother, since she was bound to be found wanting in some way.
“Margaret, you need not stay.” Go, Margaret was the real meaning.
“No, stay, Margaret.” Isabella couldn’t believe she had just contradicted her mother.
Judging by her mother’s expression, she couldn’t believe it, either.
“If you wish. Although what I have to say is not for an unmarried lady’s ears,” her mother said with a meaningful nod.
“Then I most definitely wish to stay,” Margaret replied, bouncing on the bed in her enthusiasm.
The thought struck Isabella that this was to be the last night she and her sister would be together. Not that they wouldn’t be together in the future, but this was the last night they would be together in their night rails, trading confidences and support.
Margaret must have sensed her distress—she usually did, after all—and reached to pat her hand while her mother settled herself in a chair adjacent to the bed.
“There are some things you should expect after marriage, Isabella,” her mother began as Isabella’s stomach tightened even more.
At this rate, perhaps she wouldn’t need a corset, her waist would be so small from all the tightening.
The next morning arrived, despite Isabella wishing it wouldn’t. She hadn’t been able to eat anything except for a cup of tea (prepared the way her mother wanted) and had pushed a few eggs around on her plate. For once, her parents were too preoccupied to notice what she was doing. If only that inattention weren’t because of Isabella’s wedding day.
She’d been allowed to take breakfast in her wrapper, the one and only time Isabella had been allowed to be less than perfectly dressed for an occasion. But her wedding gown was pristine white, thanks to Queen Victoria, who’d apparently thought a bride wouldn’t spill anything on her gown on her wedding day.
Of course Isabella’s mother knew better, which was why Isabella wasn’t wearing her gown at breakfast.
“Are you ready?” Margaret asked, giving Isabella’s hair one last pat. Isabella’s mother’s lady’s maid heaved a loud sigh and did something just where Margaret had touched.
“I suppose.” Isabella ran her hands down her already well-smoothed gown, wishing there was just one more night she could have at home with Margaret, wishing that she hadn’t had the ill fortune to be blessed with beauty and rank.
And then had to laugh at herself, as Margaret would if she could share her thoughts.
“The carriage is waiting, as is the duke.” Their mother’s voice arrived before she did, and Isabella felt herself straighten up automatically.
At least she didn’t think the duke would be correcting her posture. That would be one of the benefits of marriage. Hopefully, slouching wouldn’t be the only benefit.
“Coming, Mother,” Isabella replied, gathering Margaret in her arms for one last hug.
“Just remember. We can figure it out, if you’re miserable,” Margaret whispered. Isabella felt the sting of tears in her eyelids, and gave a quick nod as she drew away. Even though there was nothing to be done, it at least felt as though someone cared about her.
“Come along, girls,” their mother said.
Isabella drew a deep breath and stepped out into the hallway.
All too soon they arrived at the church, a crowd of carriages indicating that the best and finest of London Society had arrived to see the newly minted duke as well as, Isabella presumed, him marrying her.
She entered the church, her heart pounding, holding her breath and her spine as she walked down the aisle to the man who would have the care and keeping of her for the rest of her life.
Epigraph
From the unedited version of A Lady of Mystery’s serial:
“Come in!” Jane swiveled in her chair, hoping to see a white knight, a horse, or at least a messenger bearing the news that she wouldn’t have to go through with it after all.
“Good evening, Jane.”
He walked into the room like a stealthy predator, his black eyes gleaming as they rested on her. She felt as though she could see what he was thinking, what he was feeling, and it made her shiver.
“I wanted to give you this,” he said, reaching into his breast pocket and withdrawing a slim case. He walked to stand in front of her, opening the case as he did so.
It was the most gaudy hideous beautiful thing she’d ever seen. He took it out of the box, then stepped around to stand in back of her.
“This was my mother’s necklace,” he said, sliding the cool jewelry on her neck. She felt his fingers, also cool, hooking the chain fastening the clasp. “You will wear this at our first official event as husband and wife.”
She swallowed, then touched the necklace. “Thank you,” she said in a soft, nearly strangled voice.
The necklace felt like a collar, as though it tied her to him forever.
Could she ever take it off?
—THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL
Chapter 7
Nicholas pushed the door open without waiting for her to reply to his knock.
“Oh!” she said, her voice high and unnatural. Not that he really knew what her actual voice sounded like; the most he’d heard her speak at one time were the vows she’d repeated that morning.
He wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or not to have decided not to take the traditional honeymoon—on the one hand, there was the intended activity of a honeymoon, which he definitely wanted. But on the other hand, he was still so new to the title, and there were things that had to be done, and he also wanted to ensure that she was properly accepted, right away, as the Duchess of G
age, so they’d be attending parties and making calls rather than taking themselves off alone.
And now here he was in her room.
She sat at the dressing table, her lady’s maid doing something to her hair.
“You won’t be needed anymore this evening,” Nicholas said to the woman. She glanced at Isabella, who inclined her head.
“Excuse me, Your Grace, Your Grace,” the woman said, giving two quick curtseys as she walked to the door.
Nicholas waited until he heard the soft snick of the door shutting before moving to stand where the lady’s maid had stood. He picked up a brush from the table and drew it toward her hair.
He saw her flinch. And felt his chest constrict.
“Go ahead,” she said in a low tone. “You just—startled me.” She lowered her head and he began to brush her hair. The long black strands rippled down her back like silk. It was astonishing that even her hair was beautiful—he’d never really thought much about a woman’s hair, beyond if it was tickling his chest or getting in his mouth or anything, but her hair was glorious. He wanted to bury his face in it, wrap it around his throat, watch it hang over her naked body as she stood in front of him.
She made a little noise of satisfaction as he brushed, and the sound went straight to his cock. Dear God, if he could make her make a noise like that while in bed, this marriage might not be so terrible after all. Even if all he knew about her so far was that she was demure, and lovely, and quiet.
Like an elegant cat, one that knew just how it was perceived, and just wanted occasional brushing and petting.
“The ceremony went well, I thought.”
It was the first time she’d begun a conversation with him.
He cleared his throat and kept brushing, even though there were no snarls. “Yes, and the breakfast was good as well.” He felt like punching himself for uttering such an inanity.
“I hadn’t realized you knew the Duke of Rutherford,” she continued. “His duchess is—quite unusual, isn’t she?”
Put Up Your Duke Page 4