The Duke's Disaster

by Grace Burrowes

  “You were engaged in nocturnal larceny again.” He shifted to his back, pulling her over him. “I gather you steal covers when you’re thrashing with a nightmare.” His hands started a slow pattern on her shoulders, and Thea’s galloping heart began to calm.

  “I’m prone to them. I’m sorry.”

  “You should be sorry. I suffer enough worries without you pounding on me in my sleep.”

  “Did I strike you?”

  “A glancing blow.”

  Then a little silence, while Thea let the pleasure of Noah’s hands on her back soothe her nerves. She grew more comfortable, sprawled on him more loosely.

  Noah was home. Her duke, her husband, her Noah was home. “How was Town?”

  “What do you dream of?”

  “You first.”

  “Town was hot,” Noah said, for once obliging Thea without a show of stubbornness first. “My sisters send their regards, and James is forever in your debt, because the womenfolk were threatening to drag him to Brighton in lieu of the rural rounds, and one avoids Brighton when His Prinnyness is in residence.”

  “I’ve seen his Pavilion, or the unfinished version of it.”

  “His folly,” Noah said, applying a slight, scrumptious pressure to Thea’s neck. “I don’t begrudge the man some beauty, or the nation, but too many soldiers have gone begging who didn’t begrudge their country an arm or an eye.”

  “Hence you vote your seat.”

  “Hence, I do.” He tugged the covers up over Thea’s shoulders. “Now you, Thea. What troubles your sleep? Before you prevaricate, recall that I am your husband, to whom you must transfer title to all your woes and worries.”

  More and more, Noah’s orders sounded like endearments. “I don’t recall that as part of the vows, sir.”

  He snuggled her closer and spoke very near her ear. “Tell me, Wife. If it breathes fire and has scales, so much the better. The little girls will be so impressed when I vanquish this beast, they’ll recall who I am and forget those blasted ponies.”

  Thea faced a decision, one that might cost her the hands so gently stroking her hair, the embrace keeping her snug and safe, the voice teasing and reassuring her in the darkness. Those were precious, and at that moment she needed them.

  Needed him.

  “It’s hard to recall a dream when one wakes.” Hard to forget a nightmare, though. “In the dream, I can’t breathe, and I can’t scream, and I can’t make sense of what’s afflicting me.”

  “Are you anxious over something? Does this family gathering truly oppress you?”

  “It does not.” The upcoming gathering hardly oppressed Thea, not like a house party among strangers would.

  “You shudder, Wife, and give the lie to your words. Our gathering will be for a short span of days, and the young people will provide the entertainment for the curmudgeons.”

  “You aren’t a curmudgeon.”

  “A certain part of my anatomy has come to its figurative feet to make that same point.” Noah kissed Thea, and she was never so grateful to put his mouth to such use.

  When Noah rolled them and rose above Thea to join their bodies, she was grateful for that too. Noah wasn’t a faceless buffoon casually appropriating her virginity in the dark. He would never hurt her, never truly steal anything from her.

  Much less rob Thea of the last gift a young woman in her circumstances had left to give.

  * * *

  “You’ve been deuced poor company all week,” Pemberton said as he sank into a wing chair after a long night at the opera. “Fetch a fellow a nightcap, would you?”

  Pemmie was still spry, while Meech’s left hip had begun to ache at the end of any day that involved travel by horseback.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Pemmie went on, “what was Anselm going on about?”

  Meech poured them both bumpers of brandy, and brought one to Pemberton before taking the other chair.

  “Anselm was going on about something?”

  Noah wasn’t given to rants and tantrums, something Meech rather liked about his nephew. The duke was more of a pistols-at-dawn sort—which was not likable at all.

  “When I last came ’round”—Pemberton paused to take a hefty swallow of his drink—“you told Anselm we’d be heading north. I thought we’d agreed to avoid grouse moors and the near occasion thereof.”

  “All those weapons, all that drink, and a paucity of pretty women,” Meech mused. “My brothers took to it.”

  “Here’s to your late brothers.” Pemberton lifted his glass a few inches. “Go if you want to. I’ll bide here in the south until you come home sneezing and sporting chilblains.”

  Sometimes, Pemmie was not much of a friend. “Giles?”

  “Yes?”

  “Sooner or later, somebody will put it about that Anselm married used goods.” Some idiot, of which Polite Society had an abundance, and they all tended to congregate at house parties. Meech was feeling idiotish himself.

  Pemberton set down his drink. “Anselm did marry used goods. You might have warned him.”

  Oh, right. Excellent notion, if a tad on the mortally stupid side.

  “I had virtually no notice of his plans, and Lady Thea—Her Grace—should have turned him down flat,” Meech said. “The boy is too serious by half, and on the large side. Any earl’s daughter should have been insulted at his offer. Anselm didn’t court the lady, and he did court her charge.”

  “Maybe he was courting them both.”

  Pemmie could also be tiresome in the extreme.

  “Noah wouldn’t know how to court anybody, in truth,” Meech said. “Brains he has, charm he does not.”

  Noah also had wealth and an overly refined sense of protectiveness toward those he esteemed.

  Pemberton shifted in his chair, as if perhaps he too had a sore hip—or something. “Now Anselm has a wife to go with his brains and lack of charm. What would you have us do?”

  Pray. “Head for the grouse moors and pack a hogshead of decent brandy.”

  “We can run,” Pemberton said, getting up to poke at the fire. He knelt a trifle stiffly, which gratified Meech, even as it suggested running literally was a doomed plan. “Anselm is deucedly noticing at all the wrong times, Meech. You’ve been close to him and Harlan for years, and now you’ll hare off with no explanation? Simply take a notion to spend years on the Continent?”

  “Anselm’s new wife will keep him distracted,” Meech said, not even tasting his drink. “Maybe she won’t connect the puzzle pieces.”

  Pemberton rose, setting the poker back among the fireplace set. The whole lot threatened to upend in a noisy clatter, but Meech moved swiftly enough to catch them.

  “The new duchess will connect all the puzzle pieces, Meech. She’s a female, and she was in company with Besom and Bosom for her impressionable years. There was talk at the time, and that means people have at least speculated. Suppose the grouse moors will have to do.”

  Meech flopped back into his chair, his hip plaguing him like a guilty conscience. Thank God Pemmie was feeling reasonable.

  “Grouse moors it is—for now. Whom do we know with a decent estate in Yorkshire, and a well-stocked cellar?”

  Nineteen

  Enduring a house party as a companion run off her feet by two demanding older women had been hard on Thea. She’d hated dodging the winks and leers of the gentlemen—married, single, or in between—rising above the squabbles of the other servants and companions, and yet appearing as cheerful and relaxed as any invited guest. By the second day of her first house party, she’d known they were so much rural, social trouble.

  Planning such an ordeal at Wellspring, and battling all the bad associations Thea had for them, was harder still. This is family, she kept telling herself, a chance to spend time with Nonie and Tims—hopefully with Tims too—and to get to know Noah’s relations as well.

  Meanwhile, the little girls were becoming increasingly distracted and querulous, Davies and Maryanne were similarly afflicted wi
th bouts of flightiness and feuding, and Cook had decided her megrims were acting up with the summer heat.

  “You need to take a break,” His Grace decided one hot afternoon. “Come wading with me.”

  “Wading?” Thea slapped down her pen in the middle of revising the menus so the undercook could manage them if need be. “I have one hundred and twenty things to do, and you want me to come for a romp?”

  The duke lounged in the doorway of her sitting room—how long had he been lurking there, and why?

  “Not a romp, Thea, and I do not merely want it, I insist on it.” He drew her to her feet by her wrist, and stopped only to pluck her oldest shawl from a hook in the back hallway.

  In the kitchen, Anselm snagged a hamper with his free hand, provoking Thea to plant her feet and haul back against him.

  “I am not a dray to be towed along at your whim, Your Grace.”

  The duke was the only person in the household who outranked Thea, which also made him the only permissible target for her temper.

  “Your Grace.” He resumed his towing. “You forget whom you married, madam, so hard have you been working, and no, I did not marry a dray, but neither did I marry a drudge. Come along, for the sooner you humor me, the sooner you can get back to your fretting over the merits of peas compared to beans.”

  “Not peas or beans.” Thea wanted to stomp her foot as her husband marched with her across the back terrace. “The sauces, you overbearing, inconsiderate, hopeless… Where are you taking me?”

  “One usually wades in the stream,” His Grace observed, not breaking stride but slowing. “As hot as it is, a particularly deep stream would do nicely.”

  Thea let Noah lead her along, because he was intent on his way, and she wasn’t a complete simpleton. She was hot, tired, cranky, and resentful, and she’d cataloged at least twenty other bothered adjectives when her husband brought her around a clump of towering rhododendrons to a grassy embankment along the stream.

  “Shoes off,” he ordered, folding her cloak at one corner of the blankets already waiting for them.

  “You planned this,” Thea accused, dropping to her knees. “This was premeditated.”

  Why did that make her angrier? That Noah had planned to wreck her schedule, to frolic when the work piled up faster, no matter how early Thea rose or how late she retired?

  “Do you suppose you’re the only person in this marriage capable of forethought, Duchess? I did court you for at least three days.”

  A silence stretched, steamy, still, and fraught, the unpleasant droning of the insects marking the escalation of Thea’s temper.

  “You did not court me.” She yanked off her half boots. “You waited three days between proposal and vows. That is not courting.”

  Noah fell silent, getting his own boots off, and in his lack of response, Thea’s headlong tantrum paused for a deep breath.

  For Noah, for her husband, this was courting. He’d had the hamper packed, he’d had the blankets spread, and he’d probably left orders not to disturb them for anything less than riots in the village.

  “I don’t recall this particular spot,” Thea said. “We take the girls to the shallows closer to the stables.”

  “You do,” Noah said, putting his boots and stockings off to the side, and starting on his neckcloth. “You might consider unbuttoning a bit, Wife. It’s hot, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “Unbuttoning.”

  “Because it’s hotter than Vulcan’s forge. There’s lemonade in the hamper, which should be cold—it was kept in the springhouse this morning.”

  Noah had been plotting this outing for hours. Why hadn’t he simply issued an invitation?

  “What else have you stashed away in here?” Thea asked.

  “Eye of newt and fairy wings,” Noah said, stuffing his sleeve buttons in his pocket. “Have a look, why don’t you? You missed luncheon and have to be peckish.”

  “Peckish.” Thea tasted the word and found it such a bland description of her hunger, she nearly had to argue over even that. “I’ve been an utter virago.”

  Noah arranged his cravat neatly atop his boots. Thea would have bet her pin money he was trying not to smile.

  “You may laugh,” she said. “Sometimes laughter helps, and I might as well be entertaining. Oh, look, you had Cook put in some cold chicken and pickles and a salad of cold potatoes and buttered bread, and what have we here…” She went plundering through the hamper, her stomach growling, her mood improving.

  Noah let her eat mostly in peace, interrupting only to feed her a pickle or two, or to snitch a bite of chicken from her.

  Not thievery, Thea decided, but rather, Noah’s version of sharing.

  Interesting.

  “Is this where we wade?” she asked.

  “Always in a hurry,” Noah chided, leaning back on his hands. “I’ll put the food in the stream to stay cold. You will see about those buttons.” He tidied up, and Thea had to admit he was right: the day was hotter than blazes, and their location quite, quite secluded. She’d reached around to undo some buttons at the back of her dress, when Noah dropped down behind her and brushed her fingers away.

  “Droit du husband,” he muttered, kissing her nape.

  “I’m not exactly fresh,” Thea said, pulling away, but Noah’s busy fingers kept undoing buttons.

  “Neither am I,” Noah said. “But God in His wisdom has provided water, and you will find soap and towels in the bottom of the hamper. Come bathe with me.” He pushed Thea’s dress off her shoulders, and she realized he’d undone every blessed button. He next untied the shoulder bows of her chemise and pushed that down too.

  “What a wise, kind husband you have, madam”—Noah pressed his lips to her shoulder—“to allow you to eschew your corset in such weather.”

  “Allow?” Whatever mood Noah was trying to create, it was passing Thea by. Doing up all those bows and hooks and buttons would take forever. “My husband orders, if at all possible, and all creation snaps to obey. Did you say there was soap in here?”

  Thea retied her chemise, for she wasn’t about to go in the water in a state of complete undress. When she sat back, soap in hand, Noah got to his feet behind her.

  “Soap and towels,” he said. “If you look hard enough you might also find your broomstick.”

  He brushed past her and sauntered to the water, not a stitch on him.

  Thea gaped, soap, towels, mood, everything forgotten but the pagan glory of her naked spouse on a hot summer day. Noah had been working in the sun without his shirt, for his back, shoulders, and arms were tanned, and his legs and other southerly parts were not as dark. He must have known the spot he’d chosen for his swim, for he climbed onto a protruding boulder and dove into the water.

  And stayed under for an inordinate amount of time. Thea was growing anxious when Noah’s head broke the surface, dark hair sleeked back as he stroked toward the bank.

  “It’s cold,” he said, “particularly a few feet below the surface. Might you toss me the soap?”

  Thea brought it to him, crouching near the water on a wide, flat rock, and trailing her fingers across the surface.

  “Come in, Wife,” Noah said, treading water in the middle of the pool. “We’ll save the servants having to haul our baths tonight, and you can resume fussing over the menus when you return in an hour.”

  Fussing. Thea was planning to graciously and economically feed, house, and entertain a small army for days, and the duke called it fussing.

  “I concede the sense of your point, Anselm, except we’ll be overheated and miserable again by tonight.” And the family gathering would still loom over Thea, as oppressive as the heat and darkness of a summer night.

  Noah said nothing, but got to work on his ablutions, while Thea envied him his ease in the water. When he dunked to rinse, she slipped from her chemise.

  Dressing over a wet chemise would be a trial, and she was sick to death of being hot and bothered. She dove off the same rock Noah had used, and bl
iss enveloped her as the cool water closed over her.

  A short swim was a good idea. Not a well-timed idea, but wonderfully refreshing. When Thea broke the surface, Noah was lathering his hair in the shallows.

  “One assumed you could swim,” he observed. “You came off that rock like a sea otter in spring. Soap?”

  “I’ll paddle around for a bit,” Thea said.

  “Where did you learn to swim?”

  “My mother taught me,” Thea said, flipping to her back for a leisurely float. The sensation of the hot sun on the front of her, the cool water around her, and the hint of a breeze in between was delicious. “She had a cousin who drowned, and decided her children would know better. I don’t fancy sea bathing, though.”

  “Damned lot of nonsense,” Noah agreed. “At least in Brighton.” He waded out to Thea and put the soap on her belly. “I’ll leave you to your frolic, and even save you a tea cake or two if you’ll join me on the blankets before you turn blue.”

  “Shoo,” Thea said, relieved Noah wasn’t turning up amorous just because they were alone, naked, and finally cool on a hot summer day.

  And wet.

  And alone.

  With blankets nearby.

  Thea watched Noah hoist himself up onto a rock, watched the undulation of his naked flanks, the power and grace in his horseman’s thighs, saw his sex nested in dark, wet curls…

  And promptly dunked herself down deep enough to reach the colder water. When she joined Noah on the blanket later, he was lying back, stark naked, one arm over his forehead. He tossed Thea a towel without getting up, and she made gestures in the direction of drying off.

  “You truly do not want to get back into your clothes,” Noah said, not opening his eyes. “You will remain in a state of undress because you are sane, not because you are a wicked, shameless, sinful hoyden.”

  “You are apparently a sane man,” Thea retorted, stretching out beside him. “You were right about the deeper water being colder.”

  “A fellow learns these things.”

  Thea hiked up on one elbow, caught by something in his voice. A duke was one variety of fellow.