This time he kept the embrace gentle. He gave her several small, sweet kisses, peppering them over her face and lips, before taking her earlobe into his mouth and nipping it lightly.
“Oh!” Who would have thought the earlobe would be a sensitive place? Not she, for sure. She adored being this close to him, feeling his breath hot on her skin, and his body pressing against hers. He did not try to move her neckcloth, and she was sorely tempted to do it herself. All of her against all of him.
But they would have to wait for that. The prospect of having him to herself filled her with joy. Was this love? She had absolutely no idea, but she would accept it. “What is love?” she said, before realizing she’d said it aloud.
“Love?” Abruptly he drew back. “Why did you say that?”
He’d withdrawn, and to her surprise she found that it hurt. She didn’t want him to do that.
“I mean, I love my family, of course. But some people do astonishing things in its name.” She’d wanted to say it, but his withdrawal warned her she was treading on delicate ground.
“I don’t know,” he confessed. “I take it for granted, I suppose. And yes, they do, but I suspect their reason is not always love. Maybe they wanted to escape from a difficult home life. Maybe they want to be in love. I don’t believe it is necessary for a happy marriage.”
She swallowed her disappointment. “I wasn’t sure. That’s all. This is so new to me.”
“Good,” he said with emphasis.
“Would you not have preferred me to know more about…kissing and such before I met you?”
“And such?” A smile tilted his mouth, and she wanted to forget any conversation and kiss him again. “No.”
He would not let her draw him on the matter, however much she teased, so she asked him the other question that burned at her. “Do you have a mistress?”
His arm, which was draped over her shoulders, stiffened. “You know that is none of your concern, don’t you?”
“I know no such thing.” The very notion of him kissing someone else as he’d kissed her repelled Dru. She sat up, pushing him away.
“Then you should not have asked. Do you want the answer?”
She nodded. Of course she did. If she had to share her bed with an invisible third person, she wanted to know it. “I won’t be fooled.”
“Some women dislike the intimacies necessary in making a child. That’s why men take mistresses. Some of the time.”
“Well, I’m sure I will not dislike them.” She remembered something he’d said. “You wanted honesty from me. That should go both ways, or it will not work at all.” She did not look at him, but she heard his sigh.
“You are right. I don’t want an obedient, meek wife who endures my presence in her bed for twenty minutes every year. No, my dear, I do not have a mistress. I had one, but I presented her with her congé before I came to town. I knew I would most likely return with a wife. To my mind, it would be an insult to expect a wife to tolerate someone else so early in the marriage.”
Turning, she met his eyes, still dark with the passion they had just shared. Relief flooded her, so she wanted to fall back into his arms and forget what she’d said. “Thank you.” She bit off her next question. Did he plan to take another, when he considered the initial stage of their marriage done? Or when she was pregnant and unable to receive him in her bedchamber?
He took her hands between his, as he had before, warming them, stilling their trembling. “My dear, I want a partner, a friend, a companion, and a lover. I thought I would not find all those things in one person, but I am beginning to believe that in you, I have found it. You make me laugh, you are deliciously responsive, and I already know you are intelligent.”
His last compliment delighted her the most. “I’m not sure, but I try.”
“You come from a very bright family. They did not reach their current altitude on birth alone.” He huffed a laugh. “Although I daresay that helped.”
“Julius married a governess, and my oldest brother married the daughter of our land steward.” They married for love, she reflected with melancholy. True, the two ladies in question had other more private identities, but the men would not have married them had they not fallen irrevocably in love.
She had always dreamed of that, but now she had to put away childish expectations. That, she realized regretfully, included the stories she spun for her own amusement. They would have to go. All of them.
As the clock hammered the half hour, the door opened and her parents came in. Her new life was about to begin.
Chapter 7
Dru had seen the marriage rituals before, but she had never been a part of it. Two of her siblings had married in an irregular way, but this was to be a society wedding, with all the trappings. They would marry by special license at St. George’s, since having the banns read was considered unnecessary, and more importantly, unfashionable, but they would wait the requisite three weeks. That would give her time to assemble her trousseau. As if she didn’t have enough clothes already.
But her mother ordered the entire contents of her clothespress emptied, and she called a mantua-maker in. To make matters worse, she held a levee. That meant tradesmen, friends, anyone could come and share the filtering of Dru’s wardrobe.
And they did. A pile of clothes Dru was fond of but were, admittedly, out of date, grew as the morning advanced. Some would be altered to the latest style, a few would go to the maid. Of course Forde was quietly overjoyed because a perquisite of her position was to take rejected garments. She usually sold them to a shop where she did regular business, so Dru supposed she was helping London’s economy with her sacrifice.
In return, she was to receive a plethora of new gowns in the latest colors and styles. That included the smaller hoops currently in fashion, so she could be grateful for small mercies. New lace and ribbons, trims exploding out of their boxes in glittering perfection, embroidery samples that astonished. The large, bold patterns in style when she bought her coming-out gowns, that she’d had made over, had been replaced with smaller, more delicate ones.
Dru committed to a week of choosing and trying on. She would not have been human had the display not thrilled her, but the extra comments did not come as particularly helpful.
She lingered over a ruffle of French lace that bore a dull gray stain, the remains of ink. Her mother sighed when she saw it. “If you insist on writing, we will order more linen and an overgown.” Dru swallowed, but kept hold of the scrap. Constant washing had dulled it and it fell limply in her hand, but she didn’t want to lose it. Pretending to drop it on the pile of discards, she shoved it into her pocket. A souvenir of the night she’d met her future husband.
The one she had disparaged in her novel. She could smile about that because the evidence was consigned to the kitchen fire. Instead, she’d made her villain the opposite of Mountsorrel—Oliver, as he had bade her call him. She still stumbled on the word. It seemed so…intimate, and when she thought of how intimate they would become, she grew flustered and confused.
She liked the name, though. It suited him. He had an integrity she associated with the old Lord Protector and a stillness that suited him, rather than the more frivolous and vain Charles. Her family had supported the Commonwealth. It had done very well during its short reign, and thanks to the magnanimity of King Charles the Second, had not suffered for it. The Shaws had prospered and even provided the king with a mistress.
Fingering a length of amber satin that everybody had agreed did her no favors, Dru sighed. The well-meaning friends had probably helped her to not make an expensive mistake, but she loved the fabric. She would probably look terrible in it. “I’d like a yard of this put by, please,” she murmured.
“We agreed it was not for you,” her mother said, and would have waved her on to the next piece.
“I have an idea for an embroidery.”
�
�Ah. Yes, a yard,” her mother agreed reluctantly.
That way at least she would get to handle the pretty stuff. Like most ladies she embroidered, but she had no idea what to do with the pretty fabric. She would keep it and stroke it, perhaps make a simple pincushion of it. All her life she’d made protests that nobody noticed but she found satisfying. Sometimes they had worked out nicely, and others, such as when she’d climbed the old oak in the Home Park and fallen out of it, not so well. She had broken her leg, but the break had been a clean one and had healed well.
The next fabric, a crimson silk, received general approbation from the company. The sample was passed around, and everyone said how pretty it was. Then her mother came to the subject of her court gown.
Damn. Of course one presentation would not be enough. She’d have to return after her marriage. The old King rarely received anymore but left it to his oldest surviving son and his wife, the Duke and Duchess of Cumberland.
The gown would be a mantua and would have hoops so wide she would take up a whole corridor all on her own. Dru let her mind drift as they discussed it, taking very little interest in it but smiling and nodding. Was that why she had passed unnoticed for so long? Her book was a kind of revenge. She’d written people into it, made them easily identifiable. Then she’d acted as a god and made terrible or wonderful things happen to them, depending on her reaction to them in real life.
The main tale had followed a man and his drive to become king of his country. He had murdered his way there, starting with his brother. Dru had seen Garrick’s Richard the Second and loved it. That had started her on her trail. Some nights she could hardly wait to get home to write the latest installment. Her hero and heroine were saintly individuals who could not exist in real life. Far too good, far too perfect, and most people would want to slap them silly.
Secretly she’d given them love scenes that went far beyond the acceptable. Knowing her story would never see the light of day, she’d let herself go, pushing her imagination as far as she could. When she found a secret trove of very wicked material that must have belonged to her grandfather, she raided them for passages, thrilling to what she found. Obviously most of the descriptions and pictures were impossible. Who would agree to have such things done to them? A woman receiving seven lovers in one night, sometimes two at a time?
Hastily, she turned her mind away from the books and engravings she’d uncovered. Now she was facing such a fate, she had no wish to imagine herself out of them. Scurrilous though they were, they made her uncomfortable in a good way, something she was not sure she understood. But instead of faceless, anonymous men she thought of Oliver in them—in every one. A yearning she barely understood filled her, heating her and bringing moisture to the place between her legs. She knew no words for it except the forbidden, wicked ones she’d read.
Then she saw the horror they had nearly chosen for her court mantua. Extremely expensive and exquisitely embroidered, but horrible for all that. “No,” she said firmly. “Not that.”
Her mother turned to her, hands on hips, outrage in every line of her features. Not that there were many of those, because she painted her face every day. “You just agreed to it. You’ll make a show in this.”
“I’d look like a walking sofa,” Dru said bluntly. It was high time she took control of the way she looked, even if she did not care for the occasion. “I’ll take something in dark blue, with pink embroidery, perhaps enhanced in pale gold.” Recalling the garden, and Oliver’s comments, she wanted a reminder of the occasion. “Make the embroidery of roses.”
Lady Strenshall sighed. “Very well. I daresay you will look superb in it.”
“And make the embroidery delicate, not something that looks as if I’m wearing a trellis. I am not a large woman, and I can’t take those huge designs. They might be spectacular, but they are not for me.”
This time her mother smiled. “It’s very good to see you taking an interest at last, Drusilla.”
Yes, it was. She would go through her wardrobe and leave everything she didn’t like behind.
When everyone left the room except Dru, her mother, and their maids, they viewed the pile of samples with some misgiving. “I know we are not to think of expense,” Dru said doubtfully, “but is this not outdoing what I will need?”
“Do not think of it,” her mother declared briskly. “We have saved on extravagance with your sister’s wedding, which she insisted should be quiet, and your brother is never likely to need anything of the kind. Livia will certainly receive this and more.” Her sigh reminded everyone of Livia’s unmarried state. “I want to see at least one of my daughters married with due circumstance. You will go to your husband in magnificence, Drusilla, if I have anything to do with the matter.”
The cost of her gowns alone would feed a large family for several years. Not that Dru said that aloud. She knew better. Her father made generous donations to good causes, even founding an orphanage. They would scoff at her concerns. Sand she could not deny that she had at times become intoxicated by the possibilities.
But she had something else to do before she went down to breakfast. Excusing herself, she hurried to her bedroom and fumbled around her neck for the key she always kept with her.
Her desk was unlocked. Strange, she never left it that way. Sliding up the top, she stared at the clean, empty space that met her horrified gaze. She spun around guiltily when the door opened but discovered her maid coming through with a gown draped over her arm.
“Where are my papers?”
Forde carefully laid the green silk on the bed, pausing to smooth out a crease before turning and answering. “Your lady mother expressed a desire to get rid of them. I took them down to the kitchens this morning.”
Anger seared Dru. “Without consulting me?” How dare her maid do this?
“If I recall correctly, ma’am, you expressed a similar desire recently. Two nights ago, I believe.”
Oh, damn. Yes, she had. “I would have expected you to consult me first. However, it is done.” Another thought struck her as horror followed quickly on the heels of her anger. Even though she had eliminated mention of Oliver, many other prominent members of society featured in her story. What had she been thinking? Ignoring the many hours she’d spent chuckling over her work, she recalled the vicious pen portraits she’d made and groaned aloud. “Go now. I want those papers destroyed instantly, not kept for weeks for kindling. I do not want them to exist any longer.”
The destruction would be a symbol of the way she intended to change her life. She would put childish things away and become the best duchess she could possibly be.
Forde dropped a curtsy. “I will go directly after I’ve helped you to change, or you will be late for breakfast.”
Dru stamped her foot in frustration, but the maid was right. She couldn’t lace the green gown on her own. It had adjustment cords at the back, under the skirt. “Of course.”
Although she tried to play down the importance of recovering her story, she feared she had not done a very good job. To allay Forde’s suspicions, that she might realize how important recovery of the book was, she allowed the maid to help her into her gown and style her hair. She refused powder or paint.
When Dru became a duchess, Forde would probably have an assistant. The marchioness had two maids. Maybe then Forde would obey her more readily. Or perhaps Dru would not take the provoking creature at all. She did not need the silent rebukes and the palpable resentment any longer. But Forde was superb at her job, and fast. She could array Dru for a grand ball in less than an hour, and Dru, who often grew irritated with the dressing rituals required of her, appreciated that. Forde might be satisfied with her change in status and become the perfect maid.
Or she might not. In which case Dru would sack her. But she wanted to clear up a few things. “Forde, a moment.” Lifting her chin, Dru did her best to act the part of the duchess she must become. Inside
she was trembling, but she’d learned long ago to conceal that.
Forde dropped another slight curtsy, not bothering to hide her tightly pursed lips and the look of impatience in her eyes. “We must make haste, ma’am.”
Dru clasped her hands in her lap. “When I am married, I will become a duchess. You are aware of that?” She didn’t wait for acknowledgment. “I will require a higher standard of service from you. While you are excellent at caring for my clothes and my person, I wish for more.”
“You wish for a confidante, ma’am?”
That was deliberately insulting. Dru knew, as did everyone in her position, what she could and could not expect from a maid. Certainly not intimacies. Maids were close to their mistresses as it was, and to insinuate friendship would have made the services they rendered untenable. Who would like their best friend taking care of them every month? But she restrained herself, knowing this as typical of Forde, who would behave with seeming docility while radiating aggression from every pore. “No. I wish for fewer comments. I will accept your opinion on what I should wear. A good lady’s maid knows the latest fashions as well, if not better, than her mistress. I am aware my interest in fashion is desultory. But that is for you to supplement, not for me to redress. I will have more duties and a higher status. I will probably need another maid, who will be under the direction of the principal maid, and I am aware that my maid’s place downstairs will be considerably enhanced. So will the salary of anyone I employ as principal lady’s maid. I will be reviewing your situation, and I trust I will be able to take you with me. However, this is no longer the decision of my mother. It is mine. I trust I make myself clear?”
She’d made the threat as lucid as she could. She would look at Forde with a view to either dismissing her or putting another maid over her. Since the announcement of Dru’s engagement to Oliver, Forde had put on more airs. She had attempted to swamp Dru with her instructions, threatening, as she always did, to go to Dru’s mother to “clarify” any orders she didn’t agree with.
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