The Accidental Duchess

by Madeline Hunter

  He made his way back to the Crescent. Lydia would willingly journey to Scotland in the morning, and not because he had threatened seduction to ensure she agreed. She was not stupid. She knew when society had a woman’s future at its mercy.

  Which meant he would soon marry a woman who disliked him intensely, even if she was not immune to his kisses.

  You deserve better. So did she. But they would have to make the best of what they both were getting instead.

  He was almost at the Crescent when a carriage turned onto the street and picked up speed. He stepped into an alley to let it pass. As it did, the carriage lantern’s light washed the side of the vehicle. The image it displayed caught his attention, but he only deciphered what he had seen after it passed and the street returned to darkness.

  That had looked like Trilby’s coach, the one he had used when trying to abduct Lydia. And certainly that had been Trilby’s profile at the window. Of more interest had been another profile, nothing more than a silhouette barely visible inside. A woman’s.

  He continued retracing his path to the Crescent. Thwarted in his plan to marry Lydia, Algernon Trilby had apparently lost no time in finding other feminine companionship. It appeared Trilby’s life would suffer no disruption due to the day’s events, or even moderate inconvenience. It was unlikely Lydia would enjoy the irony of that.

  Chapter 13

  Their journey to the border made the marriage inevitable, if prior events had not. In traveling with Penthurst alone, she sealed her fate. A long night of pacing and thinking had led to the conclusion that her fate was sealed already, however. By morning she had accepted that, even if beneath the calm she still rebelled.

  He showed no resentment of the accusations she had made when her emotions overcame her. He treated her kindly in every way. Initially he did not even ride with her in the coach he hired, but accompanied it on his horse. Only on the second day, as they left the coaching inn where he had procured chambers for them, did he step into the coach after her.

  She occupied herself viewing the passing landscape. He had brought a book with him, and offered it to her to read. They passed the time with little conversation. She pretended she did not become more nervous with each passing mile.

  “I wrote to your brother,” he said late in the day. They would stop for another night at an inn before crossing into Scotland. “I thought he should be told.”

  “What did you write?”

  “That we would marry in Scotland. That you had been compromised. It was a very brief letter. We can decide before we see him if we want him to believe my plot, or whether you want to explain it all to him.”

  “He will probably be relieved it is you,” she said. “It could have been a much less attractive match, from his viewpoint. A pirate, or a thief.”

  “A smuggler, or a penniless adventurer.”

  “A gambler, or a gentry gentleman’s ne’er-do-well third son.”

  “A Trilby.”

  “I expect if it had been a Trilby, my brother would have wondered if I had gone mad.”

  “And not if it had been a pirate, smuggler, or gambler?”

  “A woman’s head might be turned by the dash and danger of a pirate or smuggler. But a Trilby—there would not be a good explanation for him. Of course a duke is perfect. Every woman wants to marry a duke. I doubt I will need to give him any explanation at all. Emma, on the other hand, will not believe your plot. She will be the one who asks me questions.”

  “I hope she will not disapprove.”

  “She is a very practical person. She will not disapprove. She will just be curious, and skeptical.” She could imagine Emma’s disconcertingly direct gaze leveled at her, and hear her comment on how odd it was that Lydia would change her mind about the duke.

  Undoubtedly Cassandra would be suspicious as well.

  Or not. Penthurst was a duke after all. A duke. Most likely no one would question how a woman had come to be married to one, no matter the circumstances. As with royalty, notions of love sounded almost childish when talking of a duke’s marriage.

  Which meant that no one was going to feel bad for her or question her happiness. No one would care that she had been forced into this by circumstances she had not really controlled. Even the duke—he had known his whole life he was one of the best catches in the realm. He was incapable of mustering any sympathy for her plight, let alone a touch of guilt. If he thought anyone should be seen as the victim of fate here, he probably thought it was himself.

  The more she thought about that, the more it galled her.

  “Did you mention anything about the settlement in the letter to my brother?”

  “I assumed we would discuss that when you and I return to town.”

  “I would like to address a few parts of it now, if you do not mind.”

  “And if I do?”

  “I will have to accept your refusal, although I do not understand why you would object. I am speaking of very minor parts. So minor as to barely be worth the ink used to scratch them onto the vellum.”

  “Let us strike a bargain. I will entertain your negotiations over these very minor parts of the settlement, if you entertain my presence beside you on that bench.”

  She judged how her rump all but filled the seat.“Won’t you find it tight and cramped over here?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I suppose, for a while, if you prefer.”

  He moved over. They were quite cramped, it seemed to her. Their sides pressed each other.

  “Now, which minor parts do you want to talk about?”

  “Regarding the settlement, I would like to discuss my pin money.

  He made a face.

  “Oh, dear. You find that distasteful. I thought, since we would marry soon, that it would be acceptable. Are we never to talk about money? Ever? That is good to know.”

  “I expect there will be times when we must, as husband and wife. I am not accustomed to it with women, that is all.”

  “Really? You never talk about money with women? How interesting. Do you have your solicitors do it? With the other women whom you support, for example. Your aunt. Your mistresses.”

  She received a long, steady look for that.

  “You are right, Lydia. If we were in London, I would be discussing all of this with your brother, without any hesitation. If you want to know what your pin money will be before you say the vows, it is only fair that you do.”

  That was rather nice of him. Which suddenly made this less fun.

  “So, how much do you expect?” he asked.

  She made some quick calculations. Five hundred a year for Trilby, damn the man. A few hundred for her private causes. A hundred or two for the actual pins and such.

  “I should like a thousand a year in the least. My brother may know more about what duchesses get, and ask for more, but I want to know it will be at least a thousand.”

  “I will agree to that, if you agree that you will not use more than a hundred of it per annum at the tables.”

  “Only a hundred? You might as well say I cannot play ever again.”

  “I might, but I have chosen not to unless it is necessary.”

  “This is why marriage is an onerous state for a woman. I am a grown woman, not some schoolgirl, and have known some independence. Ideally you will go about your life as you have and I will go about mine much as I have.”

  “That sounds so sane. I would be impressed, and feel bound to agree, except for one problem. I think you got yourself in a lot of trouble going about your life as you have. It took you to Buxton, and it put you in this carriage. So forgive me, Lydia, if I think I will be keeping an eye on you, at least for a while.”

  She had no good response to this, since she could not dispute the facts. “There is something else. I also want to bring Sarah with me. She is my maid. I want you to tell your housekeepers that she is to be treated well, and not made to feel out of place or unsuitable.”

  “That is an easy promise to make.”
>
  “As for your aunt—”

  “Before you request that which I cannot give, let me explain something. The family homes are all she has known her whole life. I promised my father before he died that I would never obligate her to leave.”

  That was not good news. Rosalyn had made clear what she thought of Lydia. If the two were required to live under the same roof, neither of their lives would be tranquil.

  “Do not expect me to defer to her, or allow her to instruct me.”

  “In your duties as a duchess, she may be helpful. It will be your choice whether to accept her advice. I ask you to be kind to her. You will displace her in the household, and she will feel the difference sharply.”

  She did not think Lady Rosalyn would step down from mistress of those houses graciously. She had wielded power for more than twenty years now. Abdicating in favor of a new duchess might not appeal to her at all.

  Penthurst would not understand the kinds of skirmishes women might fight in such a war. He probably would not want to hear about them either. Nor did she intend to be the kind of fragile, emotional bride who proved helpless when faced by a formidable female relative. Should Rosalyn not stand down, there would indeed be a war. Penthurst had been forewarned.

  They arrived at the coaching inn before nightfall. Again he took two rooms. While an inn’s woman helped her unpack the necessities for the night, the duke appeared at her chamber’s threshold. He looked around, noting its appointments.

  “This is much better than mine. More spacious and comfortable.”

  “Did you present yourself as the duke you are? If so, I am sure an error was made. We can trade.” She gestured for the woman to stop unpacking.

  “My chamber is adequate for tonight. I am glad to see something more suitable is available for you, however. I will tell them to hold it for you.” He noticed the servant. “Make sure Lady Lydia is ready to travel a half hour after dawn. Good night, Lydia.”

  It was her turn to survey the chamber. She supposed it was suitable for tomorrow night’s purposes. He would come to her here, and collect on that gambling debt, only by morning he would own everything she had and was.

  When she lay down that night, she realized that even sleep would not belong to her in the future. This was the last night that she could be sure would be hers alone, without Penthurst appearing at her side should he so choose.

  • • •

  Tarduff did not have the fame of Gretna Green, which suited Lydia just fine. She thought Penthurst’s decision to use this more obscure town showed some style and a good deal of sense.

  Elopements to Scotland resulted in rather perfunctory ceremonies. At ten thirty in the morning she entered a small, damp church of ancient design and stood beside the duke and two witnesses. The vows sounded very distant, as if spoken in other voices in another chamber. At the same time everything she saw appeared too vivid and sharp. She thought she might remember the surface texture of the nearest stones forever, with unaccountable detail.

  Then it was over. Her hand weighed heavy with Penthurst’s signet ring on her finger, the only ring available this day. The vicar smiled at the duke, delighted to have performed a service for such an important man. The witnesses awaited a coin for their trouble. Finally she noticed that one person paid attention only to her.

  Penthurst still held her hand and faced her. She forced herself to look up at him, half afraid of what she would see. The life she had known might be over, but this marriage affected his too. No longer would he have the choice in his wife and duchess. The reality of that might not sit well, now that it could not be ignored.

  She saw no anger in his expression. No dreaded resignation either. His gaze appeared almost gentle, and even a little amused.

  “The vicar is wondering why you keep looking around as if you are planning renovations to the church,” he whispered.

  “It is charming as it is.”

  “Yes, but he is waiting for us to kiss.”

  She turned to the vicar, who smiled expectantly and patiently. A kiss. Yes, that was in order. She swallowed a flutter of panic and looked up at Penthurst. At her husband. Not a stranger, at least. That was something. Coming here had been her choice too. That was something too. She could not deny he was handsome. Also exciting, she had learned. With a bit of time and some negotiating, they might have a bearable life together, despite the role he had unwittingly played in her life.

  That pain began to emerge as soon as she thought of it. She forced it down, away. Not now. Not today. Perhaps never, if she tried hard enough. She did not know if she could live in this marriage if she allowed those memories any freedom.

  He cupped her face with his handsome hands, and kissed her lips. Then he said something unexpected, in a voice so low that she wondered if he even meant her to hear.

  “Little Lydia, after all. Astonishing.”

  • • •

  For a woman who a day earlier had implied she might shoot the cat on her wedding night, Lydia’s composure after the ceremony impressed Penthurst. Like the woman of the world she kept claiming to be, she did not get a case of bad nerves, or retreat into the sullen silence of the sacrificial victim. Instead rather suddenly she became animated, and spent the time back to the inn quizzing him on his properties, family, and on the formalities she should expect as she took her place as his duchess.

  Only when they entered the inn’s yard did her chatter pause. She looked at the building, then at him. “There are rituals to wedding nights, but I am not experienced in them. Unmarried women do not help such preparations. I do not know what to do.”

  “We are free to dispense with ritual, Lydia.”

  “I still do not know what to do.”

  He found her consternation adorable. “After we dine, why not call for a bath if you like. Then have the servant prepare you for bed the same as she did last night.”

  “Bath, then bed. That is easy enough. Then you will visit me?”

  “If you do not mind too much. We can wait until—”

  “No waiting. You do not tell someone a tooth must be pulled then make them wait days anticipating it.” She spoke most earnestly. He managed not to laugh. “I intend to be done with this forthwith, if you do not mind.”

  “I do not mind at all.”

  She talked all through dinner. He had little need to contribute any conversation, which left him to envision the night’s events to come. He suspected Lydia’s loquaciousness was a way for her to avoid similar visions. She appeared dismayed when it became clear there was nothing left to eat, and the meal was done.

  She just sat there looking at the tablecloth.

  “Perhaps you would like to retire,” he said.

  “Yes. I suppose so. There is nothing else for it.” Hitching her wrap higher on her shoulders, she excused herself.

  He went to the public room and had some port amid the noise and commotion of the passengers of coaches stopping to change horses. All the while his mind paced out Lydia’s activities above as she had her bath and prepared all alone for her wedding night.

  • • •

  Lydia went through her plan while the servant washed her back. Once this bath was done, she would put on her nightdress, dry her hair, and fix the chamber. One small candle far from the bed would be necessary, but these others would be snuffed. The bed’s curtains should be closed too. She would lie down and wait, and do what was required when he came.

  She did not know how long it would take. No more than five minutes, she guessed. There was no need for a lot of kissing and such. By such means men lured women, and the duke had no need to seduce. She was his, and he did not have to cajole her into giving herself.

  There would be some pain, but Emma had once implied that too much was made of that by women trying to scare girls into being virtuous. Still, she did not expect this night to be very pleasant.

  She thought about the scene of love in her novel. She had included a lot of kissing. Other things too, such as she had figured out
happened sometimes. Her characters had been lovers, however. Truly lovers. Since they took pleasure in each other’s company, of course they would find pleasure in physical bonds too.

  Her situation tonight would be different from that. She avoided dwelling on the details, or picturing any of it. Her assumption, however, was that it should be over quickly.

  The warm water soothed her. The soap made the mist smell sweet. The servant left her to finish washing, and laid out her nightdress on the chair. Then she left, the door latching behind her with a sharp click.

  Lydia eased back so her neck rested on the metal tub’s rim and her rump slid down. She bent her legs and raised her knees so she could submerge most of the rest of her.

  “Now, that is a sight to take away a man’s breath. You look like a nymph whose modesty is protected by nothing more than water.”

  It was her breath that caught. She noted with a fast glance that the water afforded her very little modesty in truth.

  She turned her head. Penthurst stood ten feet away. He must have entered as the servant left. He had shed his coats and cravat and wore no boots. The candles’ light made his white shirt a brilliant contrast to his dark pantaloons. Except for where the open collar revealed a deep V of skin.

  She tried to sink deeper in the water. Her voice felt stuck in her chest. “I expected you later.”

  “I heard you in the bath, and decided to see just what gift fate had delivered to me.”

  She realized that water or no water, he could see her naked body. The fluid shimmers of the lights’ reflections hid very little. Dismayed by the change from how she expected the night to unfold, she sat up and embraced her knees so some part of her might be covered.

  He walked over. “I should have remained silent, so you did not become shy.” He knelt on one knee beside the tub. With two fingers under her chin, he lifted her face from her knees. “You are beautiful, Lydia. I do not think you know how lovely you are.”

  He kissed her lips, then her bare shoulder. “Are you finished with the bath? The water has cooled.”