“Your Grace, Your Grace, my lady.” The butler gestured to a low table in front of the sofa. “There, please.” The footmen—at least three of them—carried silver trays, which they put down. A fragrant aroma, albeit not as fragrant as Nicholas, wafted from the serving platters. She smelled bacon, bread, coffee, and chocolate, and suddenly she was very hungry.
“Is there anything else?” the butler asked, glancing from Nicholas back to her.
“That should be fine,” Margaret replied. Isabella saw Nicholas’s shoulders shake, as though he were squelching a laugh.
Meanwhile, she was squelching the urge to kick her sister.
“Yes, thank you, uh.” Nicholas tilted his head. “I don’t recall your name.”
“Renning, Your Grace,” the butler said, bowing again.
“Renning. Of course. That will be all, Renning.”
The servants exited as quietly as they had entered. He dropped his hand from her arm, and she missed the contact already.
Margaret had already uncovered two of the servers, and gestured to Isabella with a crisp strip of bacon in her hand. “Thanks for this, only I’ve got to get back. I told the countess I was just going to return a book to the lending library, and I know I won’t be missed, but I wouldn’t want her to notice how long I’ve been.”
“It was a pleasure to see you again, Lady Margaret,” Nicholas said, sounding both sincere and amused. “Please come visit us whenever you like.”
That warmed the parts of Isabella that hadn’t already been warmed by all the breathing of his scent she’d engaged in.
“Oh, and the earl and the countess said they’d be coming by for your at-home later today. I thought I’d let you know,” Margaret said in a voice laden with meaning so it was obvious it really meant I thought I’d warn you.
“Thank you,” Isabella replied in a neutral tone. Wonderful. She would have to face them, a not quite really officially married wife with her handsome, earthy-smelling husband (well, presumably he would take a bath, so never mind), and their faint praise that usually masked disapproval of some sort.
Imagine if her mother found out what had really— She couldn’t breathe for a moment.
She couldn’t let that happen. She’d have to figure out some way to make it appear as though she were a normal wife, a normal duchess, so her mother would never know the reality.
If she did know, she had no doubt her parents would find a way to leverage the already difficult situation to their advantage, and she already liked the duke far more than she did them.
She was already a consummate actress, pretending to be interested in things she wasn’t, pretending she wasn’t nervous each and every time she entered a ballroom. She would just have to fool her parents.
“So I will see you later. A pleasure to meet you, Your Grace.” Margaret gave Isabella a quick kiss on the cheek, curtseyed to Nicholas, grabbed another piece of bacon, and was out the door within seconds.
Isabella swallowed. She was alone with him—well, except for the company of all the food—he smelled wonderful, he had gone and gotten himself hit a lot for some reason, and he also still didn’t seem to want to make this marriage a real one. A fact that she was beginning to resent.
“Nicholas, we should talk.”
Epigraph
From the unedited version of A Lady of Mystery’s serial:
“I want you to do something for me.” Jane turned and faced him, his normally saturnine expression having changed into something softer.
Had she done that?
“What is it, Princess?” he asked.
“I want you to trust me. Trust me entirely.”
He regarded her for what seemed like an eternity a moment, then nodded. “I do.”
“I want to be able to leave.” She held her head up as she spoke and then spun on her heel, leaving the room as quickly as she could.
Leaving him behind.
—THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL
Chapter 13
“ We should talk.” Were there three words more likely to strike terror into a man’s heart when spoken by a lady?
Well, there were those other three words, but Nicholas didn’t think she was likely to tell him those anytime soon.
It wasn’t working. His going off to fight to stave off the wanting of her.
He’d slipped out of her bedroom just after she’d fallen asleep. His arm had already gone to sleep, and it was difficult to disengage himself from her without waking her. But if she woke, she’d likely be all relaxed and comfortable, and he would look down at her gorgeous face, and full, soft mouth and he didn’t know if he could resist leaning down and taking a kiss.
And then, since he was Nicholas Smithfield, after all, renowned for his skill with ladies, he wouldn’t stop there. That is, not unless she wanted him to stop. He’d slide his fingers down her arm, to her waist, hold her as he kissed her slowly, languorously, then more intensely as she reacted—as she would. He knew he was good in bed, he’d been told enough, and not just by women he’d paid for the privilege.
He’d even had a few of the paid women asking him to return, no charge, just for the pleasure he brought them.
He was not necessarily proud that lovemaking and boxing appeared to be his only skills. But he wasn’t necessarily unproud, either. Not that he could tell his wife about his prowess in those areas—she’d already made it clear she didn’t understand at all why he liked to box, and he wasn’t going to share any details of the other sport with her.
So he’d gotten himself pummeled this morning, and then walked into her bedroom only to find her in her nightdress and then insisting on fussing over him. Not scared of him anymore, at least, but that only made his desire for her come roaring back, even more strongly than before, when all he’d seen was her face.
Now he’d heard her voice, and spoken with her, and knew she wasn’t the ice princess he’d thought. She was a warm, gorgeous, kind woman, and he wanted to get into bed with her and not let her out until she told him what she really wanted. Or screamed his name, whichever came first. So to speak.
But that would definitely take time. Because it was a long way between dabbing a cloth on cuts caused by fighting, and allowing him—no, joining him—in a bout, preferably more, in sweaty, intense, passionate lovemaking.
“What is there to talk about?” He went and sat on the couch, patting the seat next to her.
He tried to keep his tone light, not to startle her. Although she had brought the topic up in the first place, hadn’t she? So maybe she should be trying to keep her tone light.
He was already muddled, and she had spoken only those three words. He didn’t think a female had ever unsettled him this much before. Scratch that. He knew. He took a piece of bacon from the server and chewed as he thought about that.
She sat down next to him, drawing into the corner of the sofa so there was no possibility of their touching. “I know that my parents forced you to marry me,” she said, biting her lip as she gazed off into the corner. “I don’t blame you for being angry.”
And he had been. Still was, when he thought about her parents, and what they’d threatened to do if he didn’t go along with the previous duke’s agreement. But it wouldn’t be fair to take it out on her. Was that what she thought he was doing?
“I’m not angry at you,” he replied. Hopefully that would clarify it.
“So then . . .” and she paused, still gnawing at her lip.
Ah. His terrified bride wasn’t too terrified to ask him why they hadn’t had sex yet. Although he had no idea what she was feeling about that fact—she was a master at hiding her emotions. Perhaps if the whole duke thing didn’t work out she could rebuild their fortune by gambling.
“So then why have we not—?” and he made a vague gesture in the air, but one that she apparently understood, since she turned the color of a bright sunset. She complemented the color of the sofa quite well, in fact.
“Yes, that.” She took a deep breath, one that d
id interesting things to her nightdress. “Was there—is there—someone you—you cared for? Someone you love?”
Nicholas thought back to a few weeks ago, when Griff had arrived with the news. There had been three women present, and while he’d been fond of them, of course, theirs was a working relationship.
The only person he’d ever loved in his life was his brother. He cared for his sisters, of course, but they were older, and married, and they’d never really been a part of his life. Just Griff.
“No.”
“Then—?”
How would he explain it, when all he wanted to do was have sexual relations with her? And yet was not? But some part of him, a part that he barely knew, recognized that rushing things with her would take their marriage on an irrevocable course, and he wanted a true marriage. A real marriage, one where there might, at least, be trust and friendship.
Plus passionate interludes of fucking, but that was understood. By him, at least.
“Instead of asking me if I was angry about our sudden marriage, I should be asking you.” He reached out and took her hand, which had been plucking at the fabric of her nightdress since she sat. “Are you angry? Is there someone you were interested in?”
She froze, and for a moment, he thought she might say yes. Yes, Nicholas, I was in love with a pleasant man who could tell me a story without mucking it up and who would have come to our marriage as pure as I am.
In other words, exactly the opposite of him.
But she didn’t. Eventually, slowly, she turned her head to look at him. That terrified look hadn’t returned, precisely, but she looked wary. “No, there is no one.”
And thank goodness, because he knew he couldn’t have given her up, not now, not even with them not having consummated their union. He was that much of a selfish bastard, he was ashamed to admit, that he didn’t want anyone else to have her. Plus it would have taken an extreme amount of effort for him to woo her away from another gentleman she thought she was in love with.
Not that he couldn’t have done it; he’d done it before. But it would be far easier to woo her if there was just her own self in the way of their eventual, and very real, marriage.
Not to mention the fucking. He couldn’t seem to stop thinking about it, actually, which would make wooing her with delicacy and care even harder. So to speak.
But meanwhile, it seemed she had more to add. Focus, Nicholas, he reminded himself. And not on how lovely she looked, or how he wished it were he biting her lip.
“Until you asked, I hadn’t really thought about it,” she said in a low, trembling tone. Not as though she was scared, thank goodness, but as though some huge emotion had overwhelmed her. “My parents told me what they’d done, the first time, with the duke, and then there was the change, with you, and they said they’d arranged it for me to marry you instead.” She raised wide, wondering eyes to his face. “Why hasn’t anyone asked? Why didn’t I ask?”
She was so lovely, and so hurting. And here he was, having just gone to a boxing ring to get his face smashed so he could stop wanting her, at least for a little while, only it wasn’t working. It absolutely was not working.
But he would have to hold out for longer, that was clear.
“I’m asking,” he replied. “I want to know.”
She just looked at him, shaking her head. “No, you don’t.” She withdrew her hand from his. “People say they do, but then all they really want is something from you. Of course,” she continued, giving a rueful laugh, “the thing most men want from me is yours for the taking. Only you haven’t. Taken, that is.”
Not from lack of wanting, that was certain. But Nicholas wasn’t about to take. He wanted to receive what she gave.
No matter how long that might take.
Epigraph
From the unedited version of A Lady of Mystery’s serial:
Jane knew she wanted to leave, but she wasn’t sure where she wanted to go. And that was the difficulty, especially because she had nowhere to go to.
She’d left her home when she’d married him—did she really want to return there? They’d let her go, after all.
And with him, she had everything she could possibly want—only she still didn’t know who he was, or why he’d taken her. Why he’d wanted her in the first place.
There was something so mysterious about him, so untrustworthy it seemed ridiculous to ask him to trust her. When she didn’t trust him.
But if she didn’t walk away, she wouldn’t know if she really wanted to come back.
And so she walked out of the castle, crossed the moat, nodded at a few of the villagers who greeted her, and set off down the road. To somewhere.
—THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL
Chapter 14
Isabella glanced at him, noticing how his lips had thinned, how the grip he had on her hand had tightened. His eyes looked . . . fierce, as though he were on his way to challenging someone.
Perhaps that was a constant state for him, which was why he kept arriving home with cuts and bruised knuckles and smelling of him, only more so.
In which case she would very much have to wonder about the man she’d married. But she knew he wouldn’t hurt her. Physically, at least.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said. Almost as though he was reading her mind. “I want to get to know you, Isabella,” he said, squeezing her hand. His expression eased. “I have an idea. Since I am so wonderful at telling stories,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at her, “how about we trade. For every story I tell, you tell me something about you.”
“What could you possibly want to know?” The question burst from her before she could even think. Most people just wanted to know what she thought about them. But she didn’t think that was what he was asking for. What he was asking for was something far odder, at least in her experience. Unique, in fact.
“Whatever you wish to tell me. I believe we agreed to tick off a list of things you hadn’t done before, but wished to? Isn’t telling someone something about you one of the items on that list?”
She felt her eyes widen as she considered it. He might not be able to tell a story well, but he was certainly observant. That he understood what she was trying to say, when even she wasn’t certain what she was trying to say—well, it was enough to render her speechless. Although that was the opposite of what he wanted, wasn’t it? The whole point of this conversation was that it be a conversation.
In which case, she would have to converse.
“Isabella?”
Right. She hadn’t been conversing. Except with herself, and she didn’t want to be a part of that conversation now.
“Yes, I suppose it is,” she said, looking down at their clasped hands. His hands were large, much larger than hers. Which made perfect sense, given that he was so much larger than she, but she’d never really thought about the size of a person’s hands before, and now here she was, looking at the back of his hand, his long, thick fingers, and thinking all sorts of things that she couldn’t even say to herself.
So much for conversing with anyone at all.
“I should go take a bath, I am sure I am smelly,” he said, loosening his grip. “Your parents, and likely every other interested person in the world, will be coming by for our first at-home. Unless you’d prefer that we take some more time before meeting with anyone. Since . . .” and he made that vague gesture again, as though she were supposed to not be a virgin when she met people as his duchess.
“No, today is fine.” She wished she could ask him to sit with her for just a few more minutes, and perhaps even ask him if she could bury her nose in his shirt, just to inhale his essence some more, but that would be something about her that she wasn’t altogether certain she wanted him to know. For goodness’ sake, it was something she almost didn’t want to know about herself, and hadn’t known until she’d married him, and now suddenly it seemed her nose was her most engaged body part.
“Then, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, rising from the sofa and gr
abbing another piece of bacon.
“Of course.” She spoke in her usual tone, distant, correct, but it sounded entirely off with him.
“Of course,” he echoed, then walked out of the room, closing the door sharply behind him.
She wished she was able to let go, just let go of who she was, and who she had become, and speak as naturally as he and Margaret did.
Perhaps she would find plenty of time to practice, since it seemed she would not be engaging in any other activities, at least not until she could speak with him about it—highly doubtful—or he did something about it himself.
Was that an advantage to the situation, or something that would make her hurt more in the long run? Would she ever be wise enough to recognize the difference?
Nicholas walked down the hallway to his room, counting the steps as he went. He’d counted this morning, and found it was just twenty-three steps between his bedroom and that of his wife’s.
Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen—if he just turned around and went back, he could be with her again in under a minute. He could remove her nightshift within five, and have her on her back and under him in another five. Seven, if he was taking his time.
But that wouldn’t be the right thing to do, no matter how much he wanted it. She might be asking him why now, but she hadn’t asked him why not yet.
Until she did, until she wanted him herself, not just out of duty or obligation or because people had told her that was what married people do together, and she was now a married person, he would stay away from her.
Until she asked. And then, oh Lord, and then he would make up for lost time in the best way he knew how. Until then, however, it was twenty-three steps of agony between here and there, between heaven and—not heaven.
“Your Grace.” Miller sprang up from the chair and rushed to hold the door open. “Your Grace?” he repeated, his expression showing confusion and not a small amount of concern.
Put Up Your Duke Page 10