The Duke's Disaster

by Grace Burrowes

  Hirschman tucked the card into a pocket. “Master Tims gambles,” he said quietly. “Drinking and gaming, and running with his cronies. That’s the worst of it, and many a young lord has found ruin on that road.”

  Ruin, disease, a tour of the sponging houses, idiotic duels, and penury. “His sisters are safe,” Noah said, “and they’ll stay safe as long as I draw breath.”

  “Good day to you, then, Your Grace,” Hirschman said, stepping back, “and felicitations on your coming nuptials.”

  The first such felicitations Noah had received.

  “My thanks, Hirschman.” Noah climbed into the carriage, taking the backward-facing seat, and wondering why, though he’d known Grantley was a useless puppy, he hadn’t considered that the man was also Lady Thea’s useless puppy of a brother. What manner of titled brother would allow his sister into service, for pity’s sake?

  The young men of England, Noah silently concluded, didn’t even have pudding for brains.

  Three

  “You mustn’t let Anselm’s growling fool you,” Lady Patience said as the maid arranged Thea’s hair. “He was the best of brothers, and still is, though my husband accounts him excessively willing to engage in trade. You won’t mind that, will you?”

  Patience was a feminine version of her brother. Dark-haired, blue-eyed, with swooping eyebrows that turned a pretty countenance toward the dramatic.

  “I’m marrying His Grace,” Thea said, meeting Patience’s gaze in the vanity mirror. “This relieves me of any right to judge the man for decisions made prior to our union.”

  Thea desperately hoped reciprocal reasoning would apply, for there had been no opportunity to be private with the duke.

  Had he planned it that way?

  Patience smiled overbrightly. “Tolerance is a fine quality in any married woman, but once married, your husband will provoke you sooner or later. You simply learn the knack of keeping your judgments to yourself—most of the time. Not that I don’t love my James, because I do, of course.”

  She fell silent, and Thea endured another spike of panic, for loving Noah Winters was difficult to imagine—assuming the wedding happened. She’d yet to find a moment to pull him aside and have a frank discussion with him. Since accepting his proposal, Thea hadn’t been alone with the duke, and now they were to be wed.

  Now, within the next couple of hours, and then their life together would begin.

  Duke and duchess.

  Man and wife.

  The two becoming one flesh.

  Gads. Thea could imagine respecting Anselm, yes, certainly, and maybe thirty or forty years from now harboring some affection for his irascible old self. But loving him? The notion was as peculiar as the idea of—what had he said?—doting on him a bit?

  Once they’d had their frank discussion, what would his reaction be? How did a lady even broach such delicate matters?

  “Can we not simplify this style?” Thea asked as her coiffure became an increasingly complicated arrangement of braids, curls, and hairpins.

  The maid aimed a commiserating look at Patience, who had been the soul of graciousness thus far.

  “It is your wedding day,” Patience said. “In olden times, you would have worn your hair down. You should have it as you wish.”

  “Down, then.” The style would surprise Thea’s groom, and any lady who’d been consigned to His Grace’s Concluded Business heap would find that notion appealing.

  When they arrived at St. George’s and Thea’s gaze met that of her prospective husband, she saw the surprise go through him, followed by that little softening of the eyes she suspected meant he was amused. His amusement was tempered by something else though, something she couldn’t quite fathom, but it inspired him not to offer his arm to her as she approached the altar, but rather to take her gloved hand in his.

  Anselm held Thea’s hand throughout those parts of the ceremony that allowed such liberties, the celebrant not daring to even raise an eyebrow. More remarkable still, when the service was concluded, Noah indulged in the modern display of kissing his bride in public. Had Thea known the duke would get up to such tricks, she might have taken evasive maneuvers, but he’d caught her unawares with another soft, almost tender kiss.

  What had she got herself into?

  “Having second thoughts, Duchess?” the duke asked as he handed her up into an enormous coach drawn by four spanking-white horses.

  To whom could he possibly be—Oh.

  “Second thoughts regarding?”

  “Our holy matrimony,” he said, helping her shift the yards of material of her wedding gown. “Why do females insist on donning such splendid finery when travel will immediately follow?”

  Thea had worn her last truly good dress. “Was that a compliment on my gown?”

  “Suppose it was.” Anselm plopped down on the seat as if he’d just rowed five miles of the Thames upstream. “Will you wear your hair down all day?”

  “I’ll do something with it before we sit down to eat.” Perhaps Thea and the duke would be given a moment’s privacy before the guests arrived, and then she’d find a way—

  “Turn a little.” He’d taken off his gloves and moved Thea by putting his hands on her bare shoulders. “Hold still.”

  Carefully, he drew off her veil and coronet, then smoothed his hands through her hair.

  “You are presuming, Your Grace.”

  “I’m tending to my bride. Who would have thought you had all this hair, so tightly do you coil it up.” Gentle tugs and twists accompanied this ducal scold to Thea’s tresses.

  “You’re braiding my hair?”

  “When a mare is ridden into the hunt field, she has her mane and tail braided. Keeps the brambles and burrs from plaguing her.”

  His Grace had a decided fondness for female horses. “So I must permit you this liberty?”

  “You’d best. Consider it a form of doting.”

  His hands were competent and oddly soothing as he finger-combed Thea’s hair over her shoulders, then trailed it straight down her back to her hips. Despite a crushing urge to close her eyes and subside against the cushioned seat—despite equally compelling urges to bolt from the coach and to pour out her heart to her spouse—Thea kept her spine straight until the duke secured her braid with the few pins and combs she’d worn to the church.

  “Thank you, Your Grace. I will have less work to do tonight when I brush it out.”

  “Tonight, madam, I’ll brush your hair out,” he said.

  The butterflies that had been settling in Thea’s stomach took wing again. She and her husband needed to talk, but just as she turned to address him, the Anselm town residence came into view.

  The duke remained unnervingly attentive to her throughout the breakfast. To Thea’s surprise, Tim appeared looking reasonably alert and sober, and quite well put together. He’d been at the church, to escort her up the aisle, but she’d hardly seen him for having been distracted by Anselm, looking so stern and proper in his formal attire.

  The duke always looked stern and proper—unless he was smirking and looking stern, proper, and sardonic.

  The breakfast passed in a chattery blur, for all three of His Grace’s sisters and their spouses were present, and the women conversed at a great rate, managing to include Nonie and Thea in most of the topics. The men communicated apace as well, mostly with shared looks of indulgent patience, raised eyebrows, winks, and sighs. Anselm’s sisters had chosen good men, and the notion comforted.

  In all likelihood, Anselm had chosen good men for his sisters.

  All too soon, Thea had changed into a carriage dress and was again seated beside the duke, his traveling coach speeding them to one of his smaller holdings in Kent.

  Really, truly, the time had come to have that talk.

  Anselm stretched long legs out toward the opposite bench. “You’ll pardon me if I catch a nap?”

  He was tired. One didn’t brace a duke with bad news when the duke was exhausted.

  “You can
sleep in a moving vehicle?” Thea asked.

  “In this one.” He shrugged out of his jacket, for he too had changed into less formal attire. The coach was luxuriously appointed, the most comfortable conveyance Thea had ever been in, and marvelously well sprung.

  “Come here, duchess.” His Grace fitted an arm around her shoulders. “You might as well rest too. We’ve at least an hour before we get to our destination, and we’ll have staff to meet and civilities to observe. Patience tells me you were up until all hours, fretting over fripperies.”

  Fretting, yes, but not over fripperies.

  With that, he settled Thea against him, and to her surprise, the duke made a comfortable pillow. In the swaying coach, he held her securely, tucking his chin against her temple.

  “Relax,” he growled into her hair. “I would not gobble you whole on the King’s Highway. There’s a time and a place for that, and it isn’t here and now.”

  He drew her hand across his waist and secured his other arm around her as well.

  By degrees, Thea did relax. Her husband-cum-pillow-cum-worst-fear had indeed fallen asleep, but slumber eluded her. She’d seldom been held like this, not since early childhood. The duke had been trying to put her at ease, perhaps, but he’d left a question circling in her brain, one that robbed her utterly of a desire to sleep:

  Was her wedding night the proper time and place to gobble her whole?

  * * *

  Had Noah sprouted horns and fangs, that his bride should regard him so warily? Noah had read Thea as a practical sort, inured to the indelicacies and inconveniences of life—she’d been a companion to a spoiled twit, for pity’s sake; how much more mundane could a lady’s circumstances be?

  And yet, his bride was dignified, or she was when awake. Now, she was curled against his chest, her hair tickling his nose as her breath fanned past his neckcloth. She’d fought the lure of sleep, and he’d feigned slumber himself for a good thirty minutes before he’d felt her gradually succumb to fatigue.

  Thea wasn’t as substantial a woman as he’d thought, not physically. Her dignity was substantial, her posture militarily erect, her presence as contained as the Queen’s on a public occasion. But beneath his hands, her bones were delicate, and in his arms, she felt soft, feminine, and womanly.

  Good qualities in a new wife, but disconcerting for being unexpected.

  Noah had suggested they rest mostly because Thea had looked tired to him, and a tired female could be fractious, regardless of her species. Fractiousness did not bode well for the wedding night, which could set the tone for their intimate dealings for decades to come.

  If need be. Noah had meant what he’d said about getting heirs, and then leaving his duchess in peace. He wouldn’t keep a mistress until that time either, though absolute fidelity would likely be beyond him. He was a Winters, as much as he tried to ignore that legacy.

  Noah untangled a strand of Thea’s hair from her lips—his duchess had a lovely mouth.

  She’d appreciate discretion, were he to stray. When he strayed.

  Every husband owed his wife discretion, just as she owed the same to him, once the requisite progeny were safely thriving. The idea of another man braiding Thea’s hair did not exactly appeal, though; probably an artifact of the morning’s vows.

  The new Duchess of Anselm had lovely hair, thick, silky, fragrant, and shining, another unexpected aspect of Noah’s bride. His thoughts continued to racket about, until the coach passed through the estate village two miles from his main gates.

  “Wife?” Noah brushed his lips near Thea’s ear. “Duchess? Araminthea?”

  That got her attention. Thea pushed up sleepily, her hand braced on Noah’s thigh in a location she might not have chosen were she more alert.

  “Hmm?”

  “We’ve almost reached Wellspring. Best get put to rights. The staff will be formed up in the hall.”

  “Gads.” She straightened, leaving a curious lack of warmth in her wake. “I slept like the dead.”

  “I rested as well. Our nuptials were a taxing performance. Here.” He adjusted one of her hair combs. “That’s better.”

  “Your neckcloth is off center.” Thea tidied Noah up as casually as one of his sisters might have.

  “Where does a lady’s companion learn to put a gentleman’s cravat to rights?” he asked.

  If he hadn’t been watching her, he might have missed the slight flaring of her eyes, the minute pause in her hands.

  “Tending to her orphaned little brother. There, you’re presentable, at least in dim light.”

  * * *

  “My thanks, Duchess.”

  Thea’s husband had the knack of making two words sound anything but grateful. Still, Thea was appreciative of Anselm’s steady arm, of his ease with his dutifully assembled staff. He said something complimentary about each of the dozen or so indoor servants lined up in the entrance hall, but didn’t tarry unnecessarily. The help was in good health, well attired, and cheerfully sincere in their welcome to her.

  A heartening contrast to the Earl of Grantley’s household.

  And then the duke excused himself, promising to see Thea again “shortly.” He bowed politely to her once she was ensconced in the chambers set aside for the lady of the house, and ordered a tray for her, as well as a bath.

  When she’d partaken of a little food, and too much wine, Thea climbed into the largest tub she’d ever seen. She sank into the steaming water, there to try to compose the words she’d use to tell her new husband what manner of bride he’d married.

  As she had finished drying herself and donned a nightgown and robe, she heard the door to her sitting room open and close, and the duke’s voice, dismissing the maid. Then he was in the doorway, still attired for the day, but regarding Thea with a particular light in his blue eyes.

  “You did not linger in your bath, Duchess?”

  “I did.” Was Thea to have awaited him in the bath? “By my standards, in any case. I also had something to eat, thank you.” She could not have said exactly what.

  “You’re fortified for the coming ordeal?” His lips quirked, as if he thought the question funny.

  Thea pulled her wrapper closer and resecured the knot in the belt. “Will it be an ordeal, Your Grace?”

  “You may trust it will not be.” He prowled closer, giving Thea a whiff of lavender and roses. “Not physically, but please don’t tell me I’m to briskly dispatch with my intimate duties, Lady Thea. We are bride and groom, and entitled to linger over our pleasures on our wedding night.”

  “As to that…” Thea crossed her arms and prepared to launch into her rehearsed speech, but when she looked up, the duke was there, right there before her, and all the air left her lungs. She hadn’t heard him move, and yet he was staring down at her, his gaze both amused and puzzled.

  “Can’t you trust me a little, Thea?” He grazed a single finger along her forearm, raising the fine hairs, and the tempo of her heartbeat. “I would have us be friends to this extent at least.”

  “Friends?”

  “In bed.” He drew the same finger back to her elbow in a slow trail. “I will take care of you, you may rely on that.”

  “Dote on me?”

  “And allow you to dote on me, a little.” He smiled crookedly, a different smile than she’d seen on him before. Warmer, almost charming.

  “We must discuss a few things first,” she managed as that long, tanned finger moved slowly over her forearm, from wrist to elbow and back again. She felt that touch right down to her knees, which should not have been possible.

  “We have decades to talk,” he said, gently uncrossing her arms, “and if you’re fretting over what’s to come, talking will not ease your worries. It won’t be so bad, Thea. In fact, I’ll make it as good as you’ll allow it to be.”

  “But there are matters…”

  As Thea spoke, Anselm slowly, gently wrapped her in his embrace, bringing her hands up to his neck, then settling his mouth over hers.

&n
bsp; “Later, Thea,” he murmured. “Now comes pleasure.”

  How could a man who stomped, smirked, and ordered his way through life kiss with such languor? Thea knew the meaning of melting bones as the duke’s mouth went on campaign, moving over her lips with such tenderness she could barely remain upright. Just a brush, a tease, a nuzzle, a taste, a sighing of his breath over her cheek, and Thea’s knees threatened to buckle.

  “Kiss me back,” Anselm challenged her. “Dote on me.”

  His mouth was doting on Thea, exploring slowly and thoroughly, and then his tongue…

  A man ought not to have such an appendage, and certainly not both a tongue and that other most troublesome bit of flesh. He could invite with that tongue, insinuate, flirt, encourage, and, God help her, arouse. Thea’s fingers sifted through his hair, her body curved into his taller frame, and her lips learned the feel and taste of a man who intended to dote on her to the limit of his conjugal rights.

  What on earth had she got herself into?

  * * *

  Noah’s bride was charming him, despite her inexperience, her starch, her uncertainty. Prior to marriage, he’d dealt exclusively with professionals in the bedroom, usually keeping a mistress, and occasionally sampling the charms of those other women available for a price. He was emotionally uninvested, and so were they, and he liked it that way. The bored widows and straying wives were for Meech to deal with, as were the messy endings and sad misunderstandings such encounters often led to.

  Noah’s partners were playing a part, and he paid them to play it well. They were to make him feel desired, inspire his lust, accommodate it, and send him on his way lighter in the pocket. Increasingly, he had not been lighter in the heart when he’d left their powdered, perfumed, diaphanously draped company. They were assessing his worth as they cooed and sighed, seeing not him, but a ring, a bracelet, a parure, or perhaps even rooms on Curzon Street.

  Those women could smile at a man as if he were their every carnal dream personified, and yet be thinking as they panted and sighed of what to wear to tomorrow’s opera. The calculation of it was almost admirable… Almost.