She was shaking her head before he’d even finished speaking. “No. I can’t. I won’t. You can’t possibly expect me to—”
“I can, and I do,” he interrupted, cutting off her flow of refusals. “I’m in pain, Edie. I didn’t think there was anything to be done about it, but Dr. Cahill has convinced me otherwise. But his course of treatment impels me to ask for your help.”
“I don’t see why it has to be me. Surely, a valet—”
“I don’t want a new valet.”
“I’ve discerned that,” she said, her voice softening a little. “But Stuart, you shall have to replace Jones at some point.”
“I know. And I will, but I’m not ready, Edie. Not yet. And even if I were, it wouldn’t matter. With this, I want your help and yours alone.”
She looked away. Her fingers weaved together, pulled apart—an agitated gesture. “If alleviating the pain in your leg is the purpose, then I don’t see why it matters who assists you.”
“It matters to me.” He reached up, entwining a curl of her hair around his finger. It looked like fire against his tanned skin, and it felt like silk. He tucked it back, and he heard her sharp, indrawn breath as his fingertips brushed her earlobe. “Skittish as a gazelle,” he murmured, and cupped her cheek in his palm, turning her face toward him.
She went rigid beneath his touch. “I don’t—” She broke off, frowning as she lowered her gaze to his shirtfront. “Please don’t touch me.”
Despite her words, she didn’t pull back or turn her face away, and he took advantage of the fact, sliding his thumb across her mouth, savoring the velvety softness of it. Her lips trembled, but other than that, she stood utterly still beneath the light caress. “Why not? Is it really so awful to have me touch you?”
The moment he asked the question, he wanted to kick himself in the head, because if she answered in the affirmative, what the hell was he supposed to do then?
“It’s not . . .” She paused, but she still didn’t pull away. “It’s not appropriate.”
That wasn’t at all the same thing, and Stuart felt a rush of relief. “Not appropriate? I know we’re almost like strangers, but we are married. Why so reticent?” Even as he spoke, a possible explanation occurred to him, and he lowered his hand to his side in surprise. “Edie, are you still a virgin?”
Her face flooded with color. “That is a most improper question!” she cried, and jumped to her feet. “You have no right to ask me such a thing.”
“Since I’m your husband, I rather think I do.” He stood up. “Under ordinary circumstances, of course, a husband would never have to ask his wife that particular question, at least not after the wedding night. But we are not in ordinary circumstances, and it’s important for me to know. Have you never made love?”
She looked away, pressing a palm to her forehead and giving a short laugh, as if unable to believe they were even having this conversation. “No,” she said in a strangled voice, her face scarlet, “I have never made love. There,” she added, lowering her hand and returning her gaze to his, her flushed face resentful and defensive. “Does that satisfy your curiosity?”
He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to think. This put what he was asking her to do in a different light. He’d always assumed Edie and that Van Hausen fellow had been lovers, but clearly, that had been an erroneous assumption on his part. And given the right circumstances, any incident, however innocent or trivial, could blacken a girl’s good name.
That explained her reticence. Many young women were modest to the point of prudery; it was pounded into them as a virtue from the time they were born. Virginal fear was a common thing, particularly if a girl hadn’t had many suitors and there was no mother to explain the facts of life to her. “Thank you, Edie,” he said after a moment. “Thank you for telling me the truth.”
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, understandably uncomfortable. “Yes, well, now that you know, I’m sure you see why what you’re expecting me to do is impossible.”
“I don’t see any such thing. To my mind, this makes what I’m expecting all the more necessary.”
“You can’t be serious! I have no intention of . . . of . . . massaging you or stretching you or whatever else you have in mind. I won’t do it.”
“So, you’re saying you wish to renege on our bet? If so, then you’d best tear up that separation agreement, because you haven’t a prayer of obtaining my signature nine days from now unless you live up to the terms we agreed upon.”
“I shan’t allow you to make advances upon my person!”
“I already warned you I would, but this isn’t an advance on my part because I won’t be touching you. You’ll be touching me.”
“I fail to see any difference.”
“The difference is that you’ll be in complete control of the situation. I thought you’d like that,” he added as she shook her head in refusal, “since you’re so bossy.”
She bristled, seemed to take issue with that description. “That’s a fine accusation, coming from you, since you seem to be the one issuing orders!”
“Only for two hours a day.”
“You’re doing this because you think it will make me desire you.”
“I’m as transparent as glass, it seems.”
“It won’t, Stuart.” There was a hint of desperation in her voice he hoped made her words a lie. She ducked her head, staring down at the ground. “It won’t.”
He refused to contemplate that possibility. “I’m in pain, Edie, and I’m tired of it, and I don’t want to drink to excess or dose myself with laudanum, and I’d like to be able to take a walk without dragging along my leg as if it’s made of wood. I was skeptical that anything further could be done, but Dr. Cahill assured me that his course of treatment will significantly reduce the pain and increase my mobility, if done daily. And since I am allowed to command two hours a day of your time, this is how I want us to spend it.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she burst out, “this is the most ridiculous, absurd, futile—” She broke off, clearly having run out of adjectives. At last, she heaved an aggravated sigh. “Oh, very well,” she muttered, and turned away to unhook Snuffles’s lead. “Have it your way, then.”
“You’ll do it?” He blurted out the question, so startled by her unexpected capitulation that he forgot he hadn’t allowed her a choice. “Thank you.”
She straightened, and when she turned to look at him, her cool green eyes were lit with those fiery gold sparks. “It’s stupid to fight you. We both know if I refuse, I lose by default, and I have no intention of letting that happen. Besides, if your leg heals properly, you might decide to go back to Africa, and I can live here at Highclyffe without you just as I did before.”
She jerked the lead. “Come on, Snuffles,” she said, and turned to start back toward the house.
“We’ll begin tomorrow after tea,” he called to her retreating back as she stalked away. “And be sure to let me know what you would like us to do during your two hours.”
“Oh, I have several things in mind,” she shot back over her shoulder as she walked away. “Believe me.”
Despite that vehement vow, Stuart couldn’t help being relieved. At least she’d agreed to his plan. If she had continued to balk, he wouldn’t have known what the hell to try next. As for what she had in mind for him, he could only hope her intent wasn’t to shoot him with a pistol. Edie was a redhead, after all.
Chapter 11
SHOOTING HIM WITH a pistol, Stuart found out the following afternoon, was not what Edie had in mind at all. Still, her plan for their time together proved to be almost as awful.
“And I can’t tell you how much we of the Church appreciate your efforts, Your Grace,” Mr. Ponsonby said for perhaps the fifth time since Edie and Stuart had arrived at the vicarage for tea. He beamed at Stuart with beatific pleasure.
“You paved the way for our work quite splendidly.”
Had he known how splendidly, he’d have avoided the expedition altogether, but he didn’t say so. Wisely, he stuffed his mouth with a bite of seed cake instead.
“Your maps have enabled us to take the word of God into the deepest jungles of Africa,” the vicar informed him. “The souls of many poor, brown babies have been saved by baptism since our missionaries have penetrated the African interior, and it’s all due to your efforts.”
Stuart pasted a polite smile on his face. “I’m delighted to hear it,” he said, and managed to refrain from pointing out that medicines and food would be far more useful to the native peoples than dunkings in the Congo River.
“And so much valuable work is being done. Let me tell you all about it.”
“No, no, really,” he hastened to say, “it’s not necessary to give me a full account.”
“Oh, but I insist. You must know just what your brave and intrepid exploration has done for our missionary work. Even Her Majesty the Queen was most impressed. She is a cousin of mine, you know, and holds our work—and yours, too, of course—in the highest regard.”
He thought he heard a choked sound from Edie, who sat beside him on the sofa, and as the vicar began a long, pompous, thoroughly aggravating dissertation on the churches that had been built, the barrels of clothing—stiff collars and corsets, he had no doubt—that had been shipped, and how many lost souls had been saved, Stuart ate many bites of seed cake and cast many furtive, longing glances at the clock, but after over an hour of the unceasing monologue, he couldn’t help forcing a word in.
“You’ve been able to transport food into some of these places during times of famine, I trust?”
“Food?” The vicar blinked at him.
“Well, yes.” Stuart offered an apologetic smile for interrupting the flow of missionary accomplishments. “Food is rather an important thing. They can’t eat churches and clothes, you know,” he added with forced jocularity.
“Food for the body is important, of course, but it’s the food of the spirit, Your Grace, that is of greatest importance,” Ponsonby said as he sat back and folded his hands over his substantial stomach.
“Quite.” Stuart ran his finger around the inside of his collar and cast another desperate glance at the clock, but since he still had over thirty minutes to go before Edie’s two hours were up, he felt impelled to turn the conversation to something a bit less nauseating. “I hope you feel we’ve been keeping up our part here in the parish while I’ve been away?”
“Yes, indeed. Oh, quite.” The vicar paused to give Edie a beneficent nod. “Her Grace has been most generous as far as the parish is concerned. Most generous. Sales of Work, fetes, donations, and subscriptions. If I may say so, Her Grace tends to place a bit too much emphasis on our little hamlet—not that I’m criticizing, Your Grace,” he added to Edie with a deprecating wave of his plump hand in Edie’s direction. “But I do wish,” he added, returning his attention to Stuart, “that the duchess possessed the more far-reaching, more worldly view that you and I hold, Your Grace.”
Stuart jumped on those words, happy to take his revenge where he could. “I fear the duchess has a woman’s view of these things, dear Vicar,” he said gravely. “Somewhat narrow and confined.”
Edie choked on her tea, something which, given the circumstances, he found quite gratifying.
“Yes, yes,” the vicar replied. “We men have a far greater talent for appreciating the wider world. The ladies are more inclined to ponder the minor matters of life.”
“Indeed,” Stuart was happy to agree. “But we must allow the frail sex their little vagaries, mustn’t we?”
That remark earned him a well-placed elbow in the ribs, and much to his relief, spurred Edie to bring tea with the vicar to an early end.
“Forgive us, but we really must be going,” she said, and set aside her teacup. “The duke has only been home a day, you know,” she added as she stood up. “And we’ve so many calls to make.”
Stuart reached for his stick and was on his feet before the vicar had the chance to protest, and he was too relieved by their imminent departure from the vicarage to worry about what other ghastly visits Edie had in store for them. “Right,” he added firmly. “Many calls.”
“Of course, of course.” The vicar, who obviously spent a great deal of time eating sandwiches while he pontificated about the spiritual state of the world, had a bit of a struggle getting out of his chair, but they were soon led out of the drawing room. “Shall I see you for early service on Sunday, or late service?” he asked, pausing with them in the foyer as his maid opened the door.
Neither, Stuart wanted to reply, but Edie spoke before he could think of saying the word out loud.
“Early, of course. Having been in heathen parts for so long,” she added, smiling, “the duke is looking forward to attending church services with great anticipation.”
“Naturally, naturally. We shall see you for early service, then. And I look forward to discussing our missionary work at greater length with you many times in future, Your Grace.”
Stuart managed to hide his lack of enthusiasm for that prospect only until they were on the other side of the vicarage gate.
“He’ll wait in vain for those conversations,” Stuart assured her as they started walking down the lane that led back to the house. “I’d rather be thrust into a medieval Inquisition torture device than discuss anything about Africa with that man.”
“What?” Edie glanced at him, her eyes wide with a pretense of astonishment and a definite smile lurking at the corners of her mouth. “But, Stuart, don’t you want to hear more about the souls of the poor African babies?”
“Babies who don’t need food, apparently,” he muttered, jerking at his tie. “I’d forgotten just what a pompous nincompoop the man really is.”
“He is, isn’t he?” She started laughing. “Oh, you should have seen your face when he expressed his gratitude for your exploration because it furthered his missionary work! It was beyond description.”
“I’m glad to know that you enjoyed yourself so thoroughly at my expense,” he said, and he wondered in some chagrin if she intended to force him into tea with the vicar every day. But then, he turned his head to look at her, and any chagrin he might have felt vanished in an instant. She was looking at him, and her face was lit with laughter. Her smile, wide and lovely, made him catch his breath.
“On the other hand,” he murmured, “if you intend to smile like that every time you enjoy yourself at my expense, I believe I shall be able to stand it quite happily.”
Her smile faded, and she looked away at once, but when she lifted her hand to touch the side of her neck, the self-conscious little gesture told him she was more affected by the compliment than she let on. “Then you won’t mind if we make one more call on our way back. You haven’t met the new curate, Mr. Smithers.”
He groaned. “Edie, no. First the vicar, and now the curate?”
She pointed to a narrow lane that branched off from the one they were walking. “His cottage is just there.”
“But that’s the gamekeeper’s lodge.”
“No, I built a new lodge for the gamekeeper a few years ago, one closer to the wood. This one, being so close to the church and the vicarage, is much better suited to the curate.” She paused, then added in a diffident voice, “Perhaps you disagree?”
“No, actually, I think it was a fine idea. You did well.” He was watching her as he spoke, and thought his words pleased her. But when she started down the lane to the curate’s cottage, he stopped at the road. Pleasing her did not extend that far.
She paused a few steps ahead and turned to look at him over her shoulder. “Aren’t you coming?”
“I am not calling on the curate. The vicar was enough for one day. Besides,” he added, as she opened her
mouth to debate the issue, “we don’t have time.”
She glanced at the enameled brooch watch pinned to the lapel of her green réséda walking suit. “But I have twenty minutes left.”
“Which is hardly enough time for a call. You can deduct the twenty minutes from my time,” he added, desperate to avoid another conversation with a member of the religious community.
“Oh, very well,” she said, giving in, smiling like a cat with the cream. “If you insist upon being such a stickler about time.”
“I shall be if you insist we call upon people as ghastly as Ponsonby.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway, I suppose. You’ll meet the new curate when we attend Evensong.”
“Evensong?” He looked at her, determined to put his foot down about that. “I might have to go to Sunday service, but I will not attend evening prayers, too, not with that idiot Ponsonby. No, Edie. That is a step too far!”
“But I always attend Evensong. We conduct the committee for the Sale of Work afterward. You should come to that, too, because it’s an ideal way for you to reacquaint yourself with several of the local gentry. My, you do seem quite adamant,” she added, as he continued to shake his head in refusal. “So you prefer to just give in now, then, and sign our separation agreement?”
He eyed her askance. “You’re serious about this?”
“Of course,” she said, and resumed walking. “Mr. Ponsonby can tell you all about the missionary efforts in South America afterward.” The words were barely out of her mouth before she was laughing again. “After all, you men appreciate the wider world so much more than we women do.”
“Wider world, my eye,” he muttered, falling in step beside her. “The fellow’s never been beyond the cliffs of Dover in his life. I’d forgotten just what a fool he was. And so dull. How could I have forgotten those ghastly Sunday sermons when I was home from school for the holidays?”
“They are too terrible for words,” she agreed. “Half the congregation falls asleep.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way, though. I’m the duke, after all. I can sack him and find a new vicar.”
How to Lose a Duke in Ten Days Page 15