The Duke's Disaster

by Grace Burrowes

  “Ladies and gentleman, friends, and neighbors, my duchess and I thank you for your company this evening and hope you’ve enjoyed the time spent with us. I fear, however, your host and hostess are fatigued by all the gaiety and need to take their leave of you. Stay on as long as you like. The buffet, cards, and drink remain for your pleasure, and I’m sure my family will see to your every comfort until you depart. Again, thank you, and good night.”

  Noah stole a kiss from his wife, who was covering her surprise with a convincingly warm smile. He smiled back when the room erupted in a friendly applause at his audacity, then he scooped his bride off her feet and made a grand exit from the ballroom.

  If only reality resembled the fairy-tale ending to the evening in the least particular.

  “You can put me down,” Thea said when they’d reached the first floor.

  “So you can fall asleep on your feet?”

  “It’s barely two in the morning,” Thea retorted—around a yawn.

  “I rest my case, Your Highness,” Noah replied, treasuring the feel of her in his arms. “The day has been long and fraught, and that was without near kidnappings, attempted rape, assaults, and all manner of discommoding revelations over the brandy.”

  “I take it this display of muscles is a function of your husbandly whatevers?” Thea yawned again, and the informality of it, the simple humanness, reassured Noah.

  “In all their feeble glory,” Noah said, dipping so Thea could open the latch to his sitting-room door. “I will be your lady’s maid tonight, and you will valet me.”

  “If you insist, which you seem to do when a simple request would suffice.”

  A show of spirit was a fine thing in a wife.

  Thea was the soul of composure when Noah set her on her feet, undoing his cravat, cuffs, and shirt studs; letting him take down her hair, unhook her dress, and undo her tapes, laces, ribbons, and bows. He made quick work of the wash water, but insisted on treating Thea to a turn with the soap and water as well.

  “The ballroom ventilates well when we open the highest windows,” Thea said as Noah wrung out the cloth.

  “I don’t give a hearty goddamn for the ballroom ventilation,” Noah growled, flinging the washcloth over the hearth screen. “I am exhausted, and I want to hold my wife in my arms and have all my fears relieved.”

  He couldn’t believe he’d said that, and in perfect, utter seriousness. Thea, perceptive lady, knew he hadn’t been joking.

  He hadn’t ever been joking.

  “What are these fears, Noah?”

  “Husband,” he said, holding up the sheets so Thea could scoot to her side of the vast bed. “I like it when you call me husband.”

  “I like it when you call me wife,” she said, giving her pillow a smack. “Sometimes, you even call me sweetheart or my dear, though. I like that better.”

  “God in heaven, Thea.” Noah bounced down beside her and lay flat, eyes closed, forearm over his brow. “How can you stand to look at me? My uncle all but orchestrated your ruin, and his best friend’s response is to lark off to the north. I want to shout down the rafters with the injustice of it, and you want me to call you sweetheart.”

  “Only when you’re so inclined,” she said, rising up on one elbow. “Does it make a difference, Noah, to know the how and who of it?”

  “Yes, it makes a bloody difference!” He sat up, cross-legged, the sheet draping over his lap. “I hate the bastard, I hate all he stole from you, I hate that my own uncle did nothing to atone for his part, and I hate that there’s no reparation to be made.”

  Noah loved his duchess though. Loved her endlessly and forever.

  “I don’t want to be concerned with hating, Noah,” she said. “Though I agree, some sort of atonement is in order.”

  “Atonement.” A stodgy biblical word. “If that’s a civilized way to discuss putting a man’s balls in a vise—”

  Thea put a finger over his lips. “Atonement, as in, I am sorry, Husband,” she said. “My dear husband, dearest husband in the world, I am sorry I did not trust you with the story as I knew it the day you proposed. I thought Lord Earnest Dunholm had stolen into my room. He was charming and wry, and handsome in a distinguished way, and he made a grueling week so much more bearable. Then over breakfast, he’d barely been able to meet my gaze or pass me the toast.”

  “You thought it was Meech?” Horror elbowed its way past the rage roiling in Noah’s gut.

  “No.” Thea brushed Noah’s hair back. “I thought it was Lord Earnest. I wasn’t one for poring over Debrett’s when I had Nonie and Tims to see to. I did not research your antecedents or your social habits, though Marliss was of a more methodical bent. She approved of your choice of Henrietta Whitlow for a mistress, for example. Marliss claims Miss Whitlow has no patience with married men who stray. I admit to being cheered by that.”

  “Miss Whitlow loathes married men who stray,” Noah said, mentally sending Henny a bank draft that should allow her to buy half of Yorkshire. “I do abhor unfaithful husbands too. You’re attempting to change the subject, though, my dear. You did not connect the infernal Lord Earnest of your past with my uncle.”

  Thea brushed her fingers over Noah’s brow again, as if she’d settle his thoughts by touch. Her tactic wasn’t working, not when her caresses were so sweet and Noah’s heart one great, endless ache.

  “You never referred to your uncle by his proper names,” Thea said. “Then just yesterday, your sister showed me the smaller portrait chamber, where I saw a youthful painting of Uncle Meech. I nearly lost my luncheon right there when I understood who Lord Earnest Dunholm was.”

  “Merciful God.” Noah flopped to his back. “Please stop tormenting me with these revelations. You are in our bed, which I take for a sign of your clemency. I want to hold you, sweetheart, dearest Wife, simply hold you, if you wouldn’t object.”

  Thea swung a leg over Noah’s lap and settled onto his chest.

  Noah’s gratitude defied words. He needed to hold her, needed to feel her heartbeat resonating with his own—and he dared not order her into his embrace.

  “I was so angry at Hallowell,” Thea said, her sigh breezing across Noah’s chest. “I didn’t want you to suffer the sight of him making good on his threats.”

  “He could not have made good on them,” Noah assured her. “Anger can sometimes serve to inspire a man’s basest urges when desire won’t, but shame will keep him unable to perform, and I knew James, Heath, and Wilson were less than twenty minutes behind me.”

  “You might have been killed,” Thea said, threading her arms under his neck. “Noah, your taunting him might have got you killed.”

  In which case, Noah would have haunted Hallowell for the rest of his miserable days and nights.

  “You would have missed me?” Noah asked. How had he endured his life before Thea had come along to make a husband of him?

  “God’s bones, Noah, I love you—of course I would have missed you! Who would steal my tea? Who would call me wife? Who would teach me to use the bullwhip and the dagger and a gun of my own?”

  Noah was so proud of her. “Harlan and I will take you shopping for a proper little pistol when I’ve recovered from our infernal family gathering.”

  “Perhaps I’ll be handier with a firearm, Husband. I didn’t trust myself to throw my knife at Hallowell and hit my target.” Thea kissed Noah’s shoulder and let go a sigh. “I’m new to this duchessing business. You must be patient with me.”

  Noah was so in love with her. “You trusted me, Thea. You trust me a lot.”

  “I trust you with my life,” she said, punching his bare shoulder. “I trust you with my heart, my body, my children, my future. Oh, you are awful when you are in the grip of these insecurities.”

  Noah was so in bed with her too. “I am awful, but I am not deaf. You love me.”

  “Hopelessly, though if you were in the least nice, you’d say it back.”

  For her, Noah could be the soul of nice.

  �
��I love you,” he said, slowly, distinctly. “I love you until my eyes are crossed with it, and I want nothing except to raise our children with you, tend our acres with you, and keep you safe from all harm. I want darling girls who pester me for little bullwhips, and darling boys who pester me for wooden swords. They can all have ponies when their mother says they’re ready. I want a house full of them, and no more confounded balls, for they distract you awfully.”

  Thea kissed the shoulder she’d smacked, while Noah’s body stirred with desire, gratitude, and sheer affection for his wife.

  “If we have daughters, there will be balls, Noah.”

  “We already have daughters.”

  “Meech’s daughters. Not well done of you.”

  Not honestly done of him. “I told you they were my cousins. You jumped to unflattering conclusions about me because I’m a Winters, and then I simply couldn’t find the right time to correct the impression I’d created.”

  What did being a Winters, or a duke, or anything matter, compared to being Thea’s husband? Noah experimented with an undulation of his hips, a husband’s greeting to his wife.

  “You are the girls’ legal guardian,” Thea said, returning his overture, “and you allowed me to draw the wrong conclusions.” She drew away and lay flat on her back. “Mendacity is not endearing in a spouse, but I understand about timing and incorrect impressions.”

  “I’m veracious,” Noah said, blanketing Thea with his body. “My wife will have it so.”

  “Say the words again, Noah. Please.”

  He nuzzled her temple, filled his lungs with her scent and his heart with courage.

  “Thea. Duchess of Anselm, dearest, bravest Wife, I love you. I love your courage, your humor, your patience, your body.” He kissed her soundly. “If you don’t let me make love to you right bloody now, I shall cry.”

  Or issue an order, at which Thea would probably laugh.

  “As if I could have that on my conscience.”

  Epilogue

  The house was finally emptying out two days after the ball, and Thea had begun to regain a sense of rhythm to her days and nights. The local magistrate had asked that they continue to confine Hallowell, while the authorities conferred regarding the charges to be laid.

  “This is a gift,” Noah announced, setting a wrapped box on the ducal bed as he stole a sip of Thea’s tea. “Sort of.”

  “You touch my toast, and I will thrash you,” Thea said. Threats were more fun than direct orders where Noah was concerned.

  He took a bite of her toast. “I thought you said it was sharing.”

  Thea set her plate back on the tray and picked up the package. “You might consider asking. What is the occasion for this gift?”

  “I’m currying your favor.”

  “You may curry my favor frequently.” Thea shook the box, which was heavy and solid, though smaller than a bread loaf. “Not very subtle, though, simply plying me with gifts.”

  Noah had plied her with pleasure too, and that had been marvelous.

  “Gifts are as subtle as I know how to be.” Another sip of tea disappeared into Noah’s maw. “You will be hard put not to scream when I tell you Grantley released Hallowell.”

  “Noah, you cannot be serious.” Thea set the box down, while Noah blithely pilfered a crispy strip of bacon from her plate. “You are serious. This had better be a splendid gift.”

  “I knew you’d blame me, but Grantley was stealthy about it, and only told me after the fact,” Noah said. “Shall I pour you another cup of tea?”

  “Please.” Thea ate a piece of her bacon lest it all disappear. “What was my brother thinking?”

  “He called Hallowell out, but not for his behavior toward you, which was none of Grantley’s business, because I am your husband.”

  “No dispute there,” Thea said, eyeing her rapidly emptying plate. “So was Tims being foolish?”

  “He was being gallant. He called Hallowell out for muddying the waters between Marliss and her former intended.”

  “Former?”

  “The solicitors sent word the betrothal negotiations are at an end,” Noah said around another mouthful of toast, “though Marliss seems to be bearing up wonderfully.”

  Bearing up wonderfully was what ladies of substance did. “Tims will offer for her, won’t he?”

  “If he survives the duel,” Noah said, passing Thea a fresh cup of tea. “This outcome is likely, you see, because Harlan made sure Hallowell had the use of a fast horse and sufficient funds to get to France.”

  “At least your brother has sense. I warned you the callow swains were all a great lot of trouble.” Thea took a sip of tea which was, to be honest, prepared exactly as she liked it.

  “While you have a present,” Noah reminded her, taking the teacup from her hand.

  “Leave me at least two more sips. I adore how you fix it.”

  Noah looked surprised but pleased as Thea began unwrapping her gift.

  “My music box?” Glued and sanded back together, a little the worse for wear, but when Thea opened the lid, the mechanism was restored to its proper location.

  “The girls tried to dissect it, then took it to Erikson to repair, hoping you wouldn’t notice. They are working on the precise wording of their apologies. Erikson would have forced them to admit their meddling before he’d finished restoring it, but he wanted to give them time to confess.”

  “This was so…” Thea wrapped Noah in a hug. “You are the best husband, Noah Winters, and I do love you.”

  “Have you started thinking up names yet?” He passed Thea back her teacup when she subsided, his blue eyes holding that special warmth Thea watched for.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You might consider this an early lying-in gift, though I suppose you’ll want that bullwhip by then.”

  Noah was one of those damnably cheerful people of a morning. Thea would learn to appreciate him for it, though it might help if he made sense.

  “Want a bullwhip? By when?” she asked.

  “Wife?” Noah took her teacup, set it on the tea cart, and framed her face with his hands. “Correct my math if I’m in error, but we’ve been married almost ten weeks, and you’ve been indisposed only once.”

  What? “Noah?”

  “I am fairly competent with a calendar,” he said, “and I keep rather close track of my duchess, especially recently. You’re late, Wife. My guess is you’re a little sensitive here.” He gently closed his hand over her breast. “And prone to sentiment, perhaps? Maybe a tad queasy, or heeding nature’s call more often?”

  Thea settled her hand over his and closed her fingers, testing the truth of his words.

  “Ye gods, Husband,” she said, lying back. “The first time, likely the very first time, and I’m already carrying.”

  Perhaps Noah’s body had ordered hers to conceive?

  Noah came down over her, resting his cheek against the slope of her breast. “You’re pleased?”

  Thea didn’t need to look into his eyes to confirm the worry in his voice, the tiny doubt.

  “That is a ridiculous question,” she said, though her hands were tender as they traced the lines of his face and jaw. She’d like sons with such features, tall, strong, laughing young men who teased and sneaked treats and made the ladies blush with their foolishness. She’d like daughters too—tall, strong, laughing young ladies who teased and sneaked treats and made the gentlemen smile with their foolishness.

  “So you are pleased,” Noah said.

  “I am very, very pleased, Husband.” Thea’s tone was quite stern. “Though I warn you, a duchess dotes on her duke, a wife dotes shamelessly on her husband, and a mother dotes without ceasing on the father of her children. I hope you are prepared for this ordeal.”

  “All that doting,” Noah said, kissing her cheek, her forehead, and her nose. “Sounds quite lovely. Sounds nice, in fact.”

  “Nice.” Thea’s tummy bounced, for Noah had made her laugh.

  Mirt
h became a frequent morning delicacy for the Duchess of Anselm and her duke. His Grace’s prognostication proved true too, for while the Duke of Anselm never quite got the knack of being nice, he did learn to dote shamelessly on his duchess, to treasure his darling children, to heed his duchess’s every order—while stealing from her breakfast tray, of course—and for Thea, life became very, very nice indeed.

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  “The greatest plague ever to bedevil mortal man, the greatest threat to his peace, the most fiendish source of undeserved humility is his sister, and spinster sisters are the worst of a bad lot.” In the corridor outside the formal parlor, Nicholas, Earl of Bellefonte, sounded very certain of his point.

  “Of course, my lord,” somebody replied softly, “but, my lord—”

  “I tell you, Hanford,” the earl went on, “if it wouldn’t imperil certain personal masculine attributes which my countess holds dear, I’d turn Lady Nita right over my—”

  “My lord, you have a visitor.”

  Hanford’s pronouncement came off a little desperately, but silenced his lordship’s lament. Beyond the door, Tremaine St. Michael stepped away from the parlor’s cozy fireplace, where he’d been shamelessly warming a personal attribute of his own formerly frozen to the saddle.

  Bellefonte’s greeting as he strode into the parlor a moment later was as enthusiastic as his ranting had been.

  “Our very own Mr. St. Michael! You are early. This is not fashionable. In fact, were I not the soul of congeniality, I’d call it unsporting in the extreme.”

  “Bellefonte.” Tremaine St. Michael bowed.

  “Don’t suppose you have any sisters?” Bellefonte asked with a rueful smile. “I have four. They’re what my grandmother calls lively.”

  So lively, Bellefonte had bellowed at one of these sisters for the entire ten minutes Tremaine had waited in Belle Maison’s formal parlor. The sister’s responses had been inaudible, until an upstairs door had slammed.