The two of them walked out, Nicholas dodging more ladies who had come to gawk at the new duke and his bride. Or at least it felt that way.
A footman stood at attention in the hallway, but Nicholas waved him off. “In here.” Nicholas flung the door to his study open, allowing Griff to enter before going in and shutting the door behind them.
He turned to look at his brother. “Well, what is it? Are you here to tell me I’m now the king of some tiny island somewhere?”
Griff snorted. At least Nicholas was usually able to make his brother laugh.
“No, although it does have to do with your inheritance. It seemed so clear before, I went over the paperwork myself. And we knew he would cause a fuss, that was to be expected, but—”
“There is always a ‘but,’ isn’t there?” Nicholas walked over to his desk and sat down behind it, pushing the chair away so he could spread his legs out. “Sit down, we might as well be comfortable while you tell me the bad news.”
Griff sat down on the closest chair. “It’s not bad news, precisely, it’s just inconvenient.”
Nicholas rolled his eyes. “Bad, inconvenient, whatever. Just tell me.”
Griff nodded and took a deep breath. The kind he always took when he was about to lecture Nicholas for at least an hour.
“Succinctly,” Nicholas added. He glanced over to the sideboard where there were, thankfully, a few bottles of some brown-colored liquor. He thought he might have need of something if Griff went on in his usual way.
“The paperwork is correct, you are the duke, there is no question, but the previous duke has managed to convince some members of Parliament to at least review the evidence.”
“So there is a question.” He leaned forward and tapped his finger on the desk. “What does that mean to me? I can’t do anything besides standing behind the paperwork that got me here in the first place.”
Griff sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “No, you can’t, but if it starts to feel as though he will win, in the court of public opinion, at least, you will find your life much more difficult.”
Nicholas snorted as he rose and headed for the sideboard. “It is not as though being a duke is that difficult. All I have to do is stand around and look haughty.”
“And manage your estates, and appear in the House of Lords, and ensure your workers and the people who rent from you are satisfied, and any number of things I have no clue what you’re supposed to be doing.” Griff narrowed his gaze. “You haven’t been doing any of those things, have you?” he said in an accusing tone.
Well, no, he hadn’t, but Griff should have known that. Because the only things he had done had been with his brother.
But looking at Griff’s expression, Nicholas felt wrong about saying just that. He had been doing dukely things, namely getting to know his wife, getting punched each morning, and wandering about his new town house. Wasn’t that enough?
Judging by the look on Griff’s face, it was not.
“I haven’t. And if you want me to, you’re going to have to come help me.”
Griff’s eyes widened. “Help you how?”
Nicholas felt a broad grin creep across his face. “You can be my new secretary. It makes perfect sense. You’ve already helped me deal with some of the most urgent business, and of course there is always more. I won’t trust anyone half as much as I trust you.” He spread his arms out. “Why didn’t we think of it before?”
“Probably because ‘we,’ ” Griff said, emphasizing the pronoun, “hadn’t given thought to anything.”
“Well,” Nicholas replied, tilting his now half-full glass to his brother, “we will fix that. Won’t we?”
Griff sighed again. Something his brother did frequently in his presence, Nicholas realized. “Fine. I will help you deal with all the requirements of being a duke, if you will . . .”
He paused, and Nicholas felt a tightening in his stomach. What would his brother ask for?
“Teach me what you know about ladies.”
Of all the things Nicholas had expected his brother to say, it certainly was not that. But if there was a list of things that Nicholas could possibly instruct his brother on, that would be the only item.
“We have an agreement.” He held his hand out and Griff grasped it, and shook.
He had a new secretary, one whom he trusted implicitly, and he also had another duty added on to all the other duties that he’d apparently been neglecting.
Meanwhile, the top item on his list—his wife—was swiftly becoming the only thing he cared about.
Finally the day was over. It had been exhausting; she’d had to make polite conversation for most of the day with people she’d known forever, but who didn’t know her at all. And now they were to give a ball, when those same people would come to her house and expect something living up to the title, the house, the odd situation of her being here, married, with him, and yet none of them would know anything. Not about her, not about them, not about anything.
She was so intent on her thoughts that she didn’t realize he was in her bedroom until she heard his voice. “Robinson, correct?”
For such a large man, Nicholas was very light on his feet. Perhaps it had to do with all that boxing he did. Or he was just graceful. It didn’t matter, but it did surprise her.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Robinson stopped brushing Isabella’s hair and stood at attention, waiting for whatever he was about to say.
That was one of the benefits of being a duke—even her mother had had to listen to him, to pay attention to him, when she usually just ignored whatever anybody said if she didn’t feel like listening.
But he’d stood up to her mother, stood up for her, and she was grateful to him. And then he’d kissed her on the cheek, and made that nonsensical comment about her being sweet, and she felt as though she were melting.
“The duchess will not need you any longer tonight.” He plucked the brush from her maid’s hand and made a shooing gesture. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
“Certainly, Your Grace,” Robinson replied, bobbing a quick curtsey and then leaving the room, pausing only to straighten one ribbon on the dressing table that had dared to be askew.
Nicholas didn’t ask, just drew the brush through her hair, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “You have lovely hair,” he said in a low voice. That same one, damn him, that made her all trembly inside and made her wish he would just do something instead of making her wait.
Although what she was waiting for—well, she had no clue. Beyond the animalistic passion her mother had mentioned, and she just couldn’t picture Nicholas being an animal at all.
But she wanted . . . something. Only she didn’t know what it was. Even if it was some sort of calling up an animalistic beast, or whatever her mother had warned her about, it might be preferable to all this anticipation, this worry she wasn’t good enough, that she would never find out what it was all about.
“Thank you,” she said at last, her voice sounding much breathier than she’d like it to. His hand paused mid-stroke, and she saw his eyelids lower, as though he were thinking of something. “Thank you for earlier, with my parents, and thank you for this afternoon. My mother is the one to have said it,” she said in a rueful tone of voice, “but it is important that we appear absolutely . . . correct.” She felt her chest tighten.
“We passed the first test, I believe,” he said. “There was no doubt but that you would, given how perfect you are, but my manners are in question.”
Perfect? He thought she was perfect? And why wasn’t she flattered by that? Instead, she felt as though she wished to assure him she had foibles, and concerns, and every so often she pretended to cough when she actually had to burp.
But he didn’t know any of that. She had to accept the compliment for what it was, and not as a judgment. “As long as none of our guests challenged you to a boxing match, I presume you would be presentable as well.” She spoke in a light tone that belied her inner thoughts.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Not that I wouldn’t like to punch some of those people—a few of them implied I had bought my way into the title, as though I could manufacture hundreds-year-old documents. They should ask Griff about how capable I’d be at that kind of deception.”
She put her hand on his, the one brushing her hair. “I think my hair is well taken care of. Would you—?” She couldn’t believe she was asking this, much less that it didn’t mean what it was supposed to mean. “Would you like to go sit on the bed?”
That look again. The eyelids lowered, a quick glance down her face, down further, then a visible swallow. “Of course. I believe you have some talking to do.”
“Only after I hear your story,” she said, taking the hand he held out to assist her in rising. Not that she needed it, but she did need to touch him. To feel as though there was at least some human contact in her life.
She’d gone far too long without it, it seemed—she craved it, craved leaning against him, as she had the night before, feeling the strength of his chest under her head, the long length of his body resting alongside hers.
And he didn’t have to know how much she wanted, did he? For all he knew, she could just be enjoying the moment of sharing conversation. Of him telling her some ridiculous story, and then her telling him something she’d always wanted to do.
“What story shall I tell you?” he asked, getting onto the bed and stretching out his long legs. It was a good thing she had a bed fit for a duchess—or a small village—because she doubted a regular bed would fit him.
And then they’d be squashed together, and their bodies would be touching even more, and—enough of that, she told herself sternly. He couldn’t know just where her thoughts were going.
“Perhaps about St. George and the Dragon?” She got onto the bed after him and slid under his arm, as though it were understood that that was the position they’d be in. Thankfully, he didn’t jump or push her away or say anything.
“Too many dragons,” he said, his voice a low rumble she felt under her cheek.
“Oliver Cromwell’s rebellion?” she offered, knowing he would likely reject that as well. Somehow, though, that didn’t make her feel like a failure for not getting it right. She felt, rather, as though they were teasing each other.
Except for Margaret, she had neither teased nor been teased. She thought she might almost like it.
“Too puritanical,” he said, a hint of laughter in his tone.
She slapped his chest lightly, then let her hand rest there. On him. “Then you decide.”
He covered her hand with his. “How about a fairy tale? Sleeping Beauty, perhaps?”
She snuggled further into his chest, taking surreptitious sniffs of his delicious Nicholas scent. It was definitely more plum pudding-y today, but either scent he had, she loved it.
“That would be fine,” she replied. “As long as the princess gets a chance to have some adventures before she marries the prince.” Then went still as she realized just what she’d said.
“Adventure it is,” he replied smoothly, and she hoped he wasn’t thinking about the implications of what she’d said, because, oh goodness, what if he thought she was talking about herself and what if he decided he didn’t want her, and didn’t want her to have any adventures and would send her off to the country with only one gown and an ancient maidservant who was scared of fire, and—
“Breathe, princess,” he said, patting her on the arm. “I promise, I won’t make you breathless until later.”
She hiccupped a breath, wishing she could tell him how she’d taken what he’d said, only she couldn’t, not with that big thing hanging between them.
That is, the fact that they hadn’t had marital relations.
She was even mortified at where her own thoughts went. It was simpler when she didn’t want and feel so much.
“Once upon a time,” he began, his fingers idly stroking the bare skin of her arm, just below the sleeve of her nightdress.
She laughed in all the places he’d wanted her to, even though she insisted on correcting the ending to the story—instead of the princess heading off to fairyland to enact revenge on the mean fairy, as he’d recounted, she said that the princess would not be so petty, and would just let the mean fairy come to her own bad ends.
Nicholas would have to tell her the story of how the mean fairy got her comeuppance another night. And how revealing was it that he was picturing the mean fairy as his new mother-in-law?
“And now you should tell me what is on your list, princess.” He felt her stiffen in his arms, but she didn’t run away. Not yet, at least.
Was this how it felt to try to tame a deer or some other fragile, woodland creature? This constant worrying and tentativeness?
Because if so he had a lot more sympathy with zookeepers.
“The list of things I wish to do?” she asked, her voice higher and softer than usual. He dipped his head down to whisper in her ear. Not that anybody was there, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Yes. That list,” he said, feeling the skin on her arms get goose bumps as he spoke.
“Oh,” she said, the word more like a sigh.
She didn’t speak for a few minutes after that, but Nicholas could tell she was thinking—mostly because she felt relaxed in his arms, and if she hadn’t been thinking hard about something, he knew she would be much more self-conscious about lying there, together, on her bed.
“I want to go somewhere where it doesn’t matter if I laugh loudly. I want to dance without worrying about how I look, or if I am executing a misstep.”
She paused, and he felt his insides coil in anticipation of what she would say next. “But most of all, right now, I would like to kiss you,” she said at last.
Which was both the best and the worst answer she could have given him.
Epigraph
From the unedited version of A Lady of Mystery’s serial:
It took her an entire week to realize what had been staring her in the face all along.
And then it took her another week to muster up the courage to tell them she was leaving, after having just gotten there.
And yet one more week before she’d finished hearing them say their piece, and try to convince her.
So it was nearly a month before she found herself walking up to the castle door, her heart in her throat, wondering if she was making a huge mistake.
“Princess!” The guard sounded shocked to see her. As well he might.
“Let me in, please,” she said. She couldn’t wait to find him, to tell him what she felt.
“The prince is gone, my lady. He left a week or so after you did. We don’t know when he will be back. He’s ordered us to keep the castle closed until he returns. If he returns.”
No. No, it couldn’t be.
“Where did he go?”
The guard shook his head. “No one knows, my lady.”
—THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL
Chapter 16
She didn’t know where those words had come from. They’d just popped out of her mouth, and now they were out there, floating in the air somewhere, and she couldn’t take them back.
Not that she wanted to, exactly; if he rebuffed her, then she would want to take them back. Most definitely.
But right now, he was still holding her, his fingers on her skin, tracing circles. But she knew he’d heard her, since his body had changed after she’d spoken. Gotten more—aware? Alert? If such a thing was possible.
Perhaps he was on the verge of flinging her to the floor and denouncing her as a fast woman.
But she didn’t think so.
“It seems you and I have more in common than we might have initially thought, princess,” he said. His mouth was still right next to her ear, and his words sent a gentle hum through her whole body.
Her mouth felt suddenly dry. “So you’ve wanted to dance badly?” she said in a breathy voice that nearly sounded—yes—squeaky.
He chuckled in respons
e, and she had a wild, panicked moment of wanting to leap off the bed in search of water, only it wasn’t really water she wished to drink, was it?
It was he. She wanted to taste him, to see how it felt to have that full, gorgeous mouth on hers. He was too kind to refuse her, wasn’t he? Even if he wasn’t all that intrigued by her. Even though she was his wife.
But he’d said—he’d said they had more in common. That meant what she thought it meant, right?
“I believe the way to do this is for us to face each other,” he said, a hint of humor in his voice.
“Of course,” she replied, putting her hand on his leg to twist in his arms. He winced, and uttered some sort of groan, and she snatched her hand away, feeling as mortified as it was possible for a virginal wife to feel after a few days of marriage.
So a lot of mortification.
Why hadn’t her training gone through this? “How to Deal with Your Husband When It Seems He Might Not Wish to Consummate the Marriage.” Or “How Not to Blush and Appear Awkward in Intimate Situations, Not That This Situation Is Intimate at All, Given That They Were Married.”
Too long, too much, too—
He placed his fingers on her face, right at her jawline, his blue eyes gazing into hers. And even though two seconds earlier her pulse had been pounding, and all she’d wanted was to run away and never face the embarrassment of having said what she did, she felt—
Well, her pulse was still racing. But she didn’t want to run away.
“We will start slowly, princess,” he said, his gaze moving to her mouth. She felt his stare on her lips as though it were almost a palpable thing, a caress that lit her up inside.
And then he licked his lips, and Isabella nearly swooned. She’d never swooned in her life, she’d barely exhibited any kind of emotion at all, and yet here she was, being overcome by the simple observation of her husband having a dry mouth.
But what a mouth. It was wide and full, the lower lip larger than the top, the brackets at the side showing he liked to laugh. As though she didn’t already know he had a good sense of humor. His mouth was in contrast to the sharp planes and angles of his face, which made it even more enticing.
Put Up Your Duke Page 12