The Accidental Duchess

by Madeline Hunter

  Lids lowered halfway over Rosalyn’s eyes. A bit of color tinted her white cheeks. She eyed Lydia carefully, like an animal judging its prey’s weaknesses before attacking.

  “Of course, if she is your preference, there is nothing to discuss,” she said with a little laugh. “We only sought to help you receive the service that would spare you much time and worry in your new place.”

  “That was kind of you.”

  They sat watching each other. Lydia wondered if Rosalyn would pounce, or bide her time.

  “Do you mind that he left tonight?” Rosalyn asked. “After all, you are so recently wed and just arrived in this house.”

  “I do not mind. He will go his own way most evenings, I expect.” And I will go mine.

  “It isn’t a woman, if you were wondering about that.”

  An unexpected lightness entered her on hearing that. She had been wondering, and minding, a little. Stupid of her to bother herself with such concerns. What did she care about that? And yet, the little glow of contentment said she had cared, a little.

  “He has gone to his clubs, to face them down,” Rosalyn explained. “To silence the talk about this elopement, and the rumors out of Buxton about your rendezvous there, and that magician’s interference, and the challenge. He is doing this for you, of course. His own position is unassailable.”

  “Surely no one will speak of it to him.”

  “There is no surely to it. Too much drink and some fool may. Let us pray not, however. Should something be said, let us hope others end it before he must. That he might find himself in a duel over such—” She closed her lips into a firm, resolute line and looked away.

  Over such as you. That was what Rosalyn almost said. Over the bold girl who had announced mere weeks ago she intended to go to the devil.

  “He will not duel,” she said, to try to relieve his aunt of her worry. “He knows I do not like it.”

  Rosalyn’s mouth opened in astonishment. Then she laughed. “Do you think you have such influence over him that he cares what you like or do not like? Oh, dear. You are still such a child, and that alone tells me your power is too small to make a difference. He may have done the right thing by you, for whatever reason he felt he must, but he cannot be enthralled enough to ignore a matter of honor for you.”

  “You really do not know what he thinks of me, Rosalyn, or what he might do at my request.”

  “I know this. My nephew has never had any interest at all in young innocents. None at all. I suspect he has even less in innocents of more advanced years, such as yourself.”

  “And yet, he married one.”

  “Indeed. One wonders why. Let us hope no one else wonders as I do, and looks too closely at the story of this elopement.” She stood. “Come now. I will show you your coronet, and explain the ceremony by which you will be received as his duchess at court.”

  • • •

  “So?”

  The slow, low question came just as Penthurst lifted a wineglass to his mouth at Brooks’s. It slid to him from Kendale, who sat to his right. Ambury heard too, and his gaze brightened expectantly.

  He drank the wine. “So?” he responded.

  “He is waiting for you to reveal the story of your marriage,” Ambury said. “As am I. Since Southwaite is not here, you do not have to worry about his reaction. In the event there is something in the tale that he might react to badly, that is.”

  “I have told you the story. I trust everyone has heard it by now.”

  “Not that story,” Kendale said. “The true story. The one not prettied up for the matrons and bishops.”

  “You might as well tell us,” Ambury said. “Cassandra is bound to get it out of Lydia eventually. Both she and Emma are very skeptical about what they have heard.”

  “As are some others,” Kendale said. “It does not make sense. Oh, B follows A and C follows B just fine. But there is much that is missing or odd.”

  Just his luck. Ambury, the investigator, and Kendale, the man who saw only blacks and whites, had mulled over the plot and found it lacking. That meant others had too.

  “What is missing?”

  “Any indication that she noticed you were alive before a month ago,” Kendale said. “Evidence that in the last month she enjoyed your company rather than suffered it.”

  “You are being overly blunt again, Kendale,” Ambury scolded. “What have I told you about that? A little finesse is in order.”

  “Hell, you are the one who said she looked like riding back in the rain with him was a fate worse than death.”

  “I did not put it quite that way. I said I would have suspected they went there to meet each other, except that she did not appear happy to have to ride back with him. Perhaps that was not because she did not favor him. Maybe she was afraid someone would start suspecting their secret tendre if she was seen like that.” Ambury sighed. “You keep missing the nuances.”

  “Well, you just touched on another thing to make one skeptical. If there was a tendre, why would it be a secret?” Kendale asked. “Not because Southwaite would not approve. Not because Penthurst has a wife who might complain. Not because she is of low birth and his friends would object. Why would there need to be a secret rendezvous in Buxton, for that matter?”

  Penthurst kept his silence and let them make the arguments being made, no doubt, at dinner tables all over town this week.

  “I’ll not be saying what is missing from this story, but there’s those who think they know what it is,” Kendale concluded.

  Ambury gave Kendale a scowl, then smiled broadly. “More wine, I think.” He hailed one of the club’s servants.

  “What do some think is missing?” Penthurst asked.

  Ambury waved the question, and Kendale, away as so much bad air. “He is just being Kendale. You know how he is.”

  “I do indeed. Regrettably, among his worse qualities there dwell a few superb ones, such as a talent for analysis and incisive deduction. So, Kendale, what is missing?”

  “Do. Not. Answer. That,” Ambury ordered, firmly.

  “He is right,” Kendale said. “We can’t have you dueling with another one of us. You might end up the one dead this time, and the realm needs its dukes more than its viscounts.”

  The reference hung there like the dangling sword it was. How like Kendale the Implacable to bring it up casually, as if it did not threaten to slice at all of them, including him.

  “I will issue no challenges. I should know what is abroad, however, so I can counter it as best I can.”

  Ambury appeared skeptical. Kendale just drank his wine.

  “What is missing, but some think is implied,” Ambury began. “Not by us, of course, and I am sure it has not entered Southwaite’s head at all— What is missing is a seduction.”

  “A ruthless seduction,” Kendale elaborated.

  “Here in London, with a later secret rendezvous in Buxton, but not for an elopement,” Ambury said.

  “Of a somewhat addled woman who some think has not been right in the head for years now,” Kendale threw in.

  “In this thinking, which I repeat none of us believe for a minute—isn’t that right, Kendale?—in this thinking, the sudden appearance of Trilby forced your hand. With the Buxton assignation exposed, you had no choice but to marry her fast.”

  Hell and damnation. He had saved her from ruin, and now he was being painted a scoundrel.

  “Who is saying this? Who? I insist you tell me the blackguards’ names.”

  Ambury grimaced. “Ah. Well, see, I can’t do that. And I will thrash Kendale if he tries to. If you learn any names, you are going to confront them, and there will be the devil to pay. Then Southwaite will hear it all, and maybe start wondering, and that will be the end of a lot of friendships.”

  “I thought you should be told, since it involves your honor,” Kendale confided. “I was just saying so before you arrived. Ambury convinced me we don’t need more duels, however, and I would not want this to get back to your wife
and it would if you started killing men over it.”

  He was not convinced these two did not believe the scurrilous explanation conjured up by malicious minds. They both agreed his own plot did not entirely hold up to close scrutiny, after all.

  He looked at them. Honorable men, both. Old friends, for all that had happened and despite Kendale’s lack of total forgiveness.

  “I will tell you two the true story, and rely on your discretion.”

  Surprised, both leaned toward him, curious.

  “There was no seduction, but also no tendre. Lydia did not go to Buxton to meet me. I followed her there, because I suspected she was up to some reckless scheme, such as she has been known to engage in. No sooner had I arrived than I saw Trilby’s attempted abduction. I interfered, issued a challenge in my anger, and brought attention to Lydia’s presence in that town, and mine, and Trilby’s. Rumors were bound to fly, most of them about her, so—”

  “You married her to spare her,” Ambury finished.

  “Damned decent of you,” Kendale muttered. “What was she doing there?”

  “She will not say, except to insist she did nothing wrong. I think she went there to gamble, but do not know for certain.”

  Kendale rolled his eyes. “Make her tell you. Hell, the actual true story may be the easiest to explain.”

  “Don’t be brutish. He can hardly beat it out of her,” Ambury said.

  “Who spoke of beating? He is her husband. Just demand she tell you.”

  “You speak as if such demands always result in compliance. That is newlywed bliss speaking. Trust me, Kendale, within a year you can demand all you want, and if your wife wants to keep a secret, she will do so.”

  “Speak for yourself. Marielle and I have no secrets. At least not anymore.”

  Exasperated, Ambury threw up his hands and turned his attention away from Kendale. “Your actual, true story is safe with us. He is correct, however. If you can be sure her reason for going to Buxton will not reflect on her even worse, letting it be known may be the wisest course.”

  He did not relish the notion of trying to pry that information out of Lydia, but he knew he would have to try. In the meantime—

  “You can tell whomever you choose the following. If I learn any man has said I seduced Lydia, let alone with dishonorable intentions, I will call him out. If I hear any woman has spread such a rumor, I will see she is not received in any house worth visiting. We fell in love and eloped because we thought it would be romantic. It is not a very dramatic story, and perhaps too simple for minds looking for intrigue, but there it is.”

  Kendale left soon after, and he and Ambury joined others at a card table. An hour later Ambury also took his leave.

  Penthurst walked out alongside him. “Before you go, take a turn with me outside.”

  Ambury followed him out of the club. They strolled along the street, shrouded by the mist.

  “I have decided to accept your offer to do some investigating for me,” he said.

  “Do you want me to find out what Lydia was doing at Buxton?”

  “It isn’t that.” Not yet, at least. “It has to do with Lakewood. I need you to find a man for me. His name is Michael Greenly. I believe he is of a gentry family in Yorkshire. He was in the Life Guards for a few years, but is no longer.”

  “That last bit should help. Why would he give up a plum commission such as that?”

  “It was discovered that he bought the favor that had recommended him for it. His choices were selling out, or scandal and possibly a trial.”

  Ambury paced along a good hundred feet before asking the inevitable question. “Are you saying he paid Lakewood for that favor? That Lakewood was selling commissions?” His tone carried censure. Influence came into play all the time in such things, but should not be sold.

  “Lakewood did not have the position to influence commissions. He had friends, however, who did.”

  “Which friend did he use with this Greenly?”

  “Me.”

  He felt Ambury’s gaze peering his way in the night. They turned and retraced their steps.

  “Greenly could not hold his drink and spoke of it to a fellow officer one night. How he had paid dearly for his commission, and far more than was known. My word as a gentleman that he had not paid me was enough to silence the matter, but he was invited to sell out at once. I confronted Lakewood, since I knew what must have happened.”

  “I am seeing the map that brought you to that field that morning, Penthurst. And I find myself scouring my memory for whether Lakewood ever asked me to put in a good word for a young man seeking a commission.”

  “I suggest you do not search too deeply. Just find Mr. Greenly, so I can learn whether I misunderstood the matter in some way.”

  Chapter 15

  Lydia did not sleep quickly that night. She lay abed with the lamp still lit, trying to distract her unaccountable restlessness by planning how she might decorate her bedchamber.

  Toile, perhaps. In green. She would not want her apartment to drip with satins or velvet. Better to live in a fresh open garden than a ballroom. She would replace the heavily carved furniture with items showing Roman influence, perhaps in a light-toned wood.

  While she debated wall coverings, she listened for the sounds of Penthurst returning. Of course he would eventually. Even if Rosalyn’s fears had been realized and he had issued some challenge, the duel would not be fought right away.

  She should have asked for a promise he would never do that again. She doubted he would have given it, but she could have at least tried. She hated duels, and how men resorted to them at the least provocation. Penthurst seemed to do that faster than most too.

  She remembered the day she learned about that other duel. The news had come from Southwaite, in a brief note while she was visiting her aunt Amelia in Hampshire. He had been distraught, she could tell, over the death of his friend. His words offered little comfort to her, but then he did not know how she felt about Lakewood.

  No one had guessed. Not her aunts and not her brother. No one ever knew how she had cried into her pillow night after night for weeks on end. And when the pain finally receded, it had left her numb and uncaring.

  The memories had dazed her. She blinked them away, and saw her bedchamber again. And at the door to the dressing room next door, she saw the duke.

  He watched her. She could tell even though he appeared a dark form in a dark threshold. The lamp picked up tiny golden lights in his eyes. How long had he been standing there, watching?

  It burned when she swallowed, and she realized she had shed a few tears while remembering. Had he seen that?

  She collected herself. She put aside the love-struck, miserable girl and found the woman of the world. She could spend her whole life hating the duke, and hating her fate, but that would be a stupid choice.

  “Your aunt told me you went to your clubs to issue challenges if necessary. I trust we will not be entertaining a line of seconds tomorrow.”

  “No seconds will be calling. No challenges were issued.”

  “I am glad.”

  “For my safety?”

  “For the friends and families of everyone, including you.”

  He came into her chamber. He wore a loose patterned silk robe. She guessed that was all he wore. “Sometime we will have to talk about that. About the friends and families.” He reached out and ran his thumb over her cheek. When he lifted it, moisture glossed its skin. “We will have to talk about this too.”

  She wiped her eyes quickly. “Not tonight, I hope.”

  “No, not tonight.” He turned to go.

  An odd emotion prodded her. Disappointment? No, embarrassment. He had come here and found her weeping like some child. He has no interest in young innocents. None at all.

  She would have to live a lifetime with this man.

  “Are you going? I thought you had come to collect on the second debt, the one from Morgan’s.”

  He paused, and turned. “You are nothin
g if not unpredictable, Lydia. And still a little reckless too.”

  “I hope so. I would not want to be predictable and staid. Life can be dull enough without being determined to make it so.”

  He sat on the side of the bed. “It sounds as if your goal as a woman was excitement, not marriage. That explains a lot of things.”

  She wondered what things. Perhaps she would be better off not knowing what he really thought of her, since they were stuck with each other. “I will admit that I have preferred experiences that are out of the ordinary. Perhaps it was the excitement.”

  He gave her hip a little swat, and gestured for her to move over. He drew off the robe and lay beside her, then moved so he lay atop her, his hips settled between her thighs. His physicality startled her as it had the first time. The sensation of his skin on hers, and of his body pressing hers, had her senses all alert and waiting.

  Braced on his forearms, he toyed at a tendril of her hair. “At night we will find excitement, Lydia. Whether it is out of the ordinary will be up to you.”

  She puzzled what he meant, but only for a moment. He kissed her and distracted her from pondering meanings and innuendos.

  She knew what was coming this time. Her body relished the pleasure as it began its sly titillation. He let her embrace him, and she held his shoulders, then ventured a little caress that revealed the smooth texture of his skin and the firm frame and muscles of the hard body it covered. He did not appear to mind, so she explored a little further, fascinated by the feel of him, admiring the shoulders tensed above her, gazing past his head while he kissed her so she could watch her fingers play along the hills and ridges of his body.

  His lips smiled against hers. He broke the kiss and looked down at her. “You are fairly distracted by something.”

  “I— That is, not distracted as such, just—”

  He rolled onto his back. His hands closed on her waist and with an easy swing he set her atop him, straddling his waist. “Just curious. This will be better for you, then. You can look and touch as much as you want, Lydia. Your hands give me pleasure, just as mine do you.”