The Perks of being a Duchess (Middleton Novel Book 2)

by Tanya Wilde

  “I’m worried about you, Willow,” Poppy murmured softly, crossing over to join her at the window. “I do not wish for you or Holly to be unhappy. It feels like I have lost two sisters this day.”

  “You have not lost us, dear,” Willow murmured. “And this was my choice. I could not let Holly marry a man she did not love, not when she had been so hopeful about the subject. And while I did not plan for this to happen, when I was standing there, something came over me, and here we are.”

  “Yes, and while I appreciate the sacrifice, I would be remiss if I failed to point out that it’s not too late to run. The marriage has not been consummated, and Father will call for an annulment if you ask him.”

  “You just said the duke would not give up what he considers his.”

  “Yes, I did. But on this point, the law outweighs his pride. You are my sister, and I want you to be happy.”

  “I cannot run now, Poppy, I’ve spoken vows.”

  “So unspeak them.”

  Willow shook her head, giving Poppy an exasperated look. Her sister, who much resembled her cousin Belle, the Countess of Westfield, for her adventurous spirit, meant well, but she was not being sensible. An annulment would be as bad as a jilting. But, in truth, Poppy also wasn’t aware of the desire that had driven Willow into action—and that was Willow’s fault. It was time she put that to rights.

  “I must tell you the whole truth, Poppy. Saving our family from scandal is not the only reason I married the duke. I didn’t just do it for Holly, or you, or our family, I did it for myself, as well.”

  “What do you mean?” Poppy glanced at her in confusion. “Oh, you mean because of your potential ruination—”

  “No. I mean for me. Because I want a child.”

  “You want a child?”

  “Yes, ever since I can remember,” Willow admitted. “I thought that if I took Holly’s place I could save our reputations and meet my own wish.”

  Poppy shut her mouth. “I . . . I didn’t know. You never told us.”

  “It wasn’t significant,” Willow murmured. “Not at the time.”

  “Not significant? You commandeered Holly’s wedding. I’d say it’s colossal.”

  “When you put it like that . . .” Willow sighed. “I had difficulty in sharing in it. We always talked of adventures and fun, not of marriage and children. So when I saw an opportunity, I took it. I don’t feel guilty for that.”

  Poppy lifted her hands in defense. “I am not judging you, Willow. But do you truly believe a child is the answer? Would you not wish to wait for the right man to bear a child with?”

  “And who is the right man?” Willow asked in a dry manner. “A man that promises to move mountains for me?”

  “Of course not,” Poppy said with a small laugh. “Mountains cannot be moved, but imagine a man who understood you, the real you. That is something to hold out for.”

  “It is a lovely sentiment, Poppy,” Willow murmured, placing her hand on her sister’s. “But I have made my choice.”

  “All right then, if you are certain, I shall have your back,” Poppy said thoughtfully, and after a moment added, “You know, I should have suspected something amiss when our sister did not endlessly wax poetic drivel about the duke anymore.”

  “We did warn her,” Willow said, sliding a stray curl behind her ear. “She has always been prone to fall in love at the drop of a hat. But none of that matters anymore. Our family will be spared from scandal and your chances of making a good match will remain intact.”

  “Do not worry about my prospects.” Poppy made a wry face. “The man I choose will be stronger than whatever battering my reputability has undergone.”

  “You say that now but what if all of society snubbed our entire family?”

  Poppy shrugged. “It will blow over in time when some other scandal explodes and distracts everyone. You know how the people of London thrive on scandal. If anything, we will be invited to all the parties because of the blemish attached to our name.”

  “That’s true,” Willow said with a grin before she sobered. “The important thing is to shield Holly from the duke and his wrath. He is demanding she marry his brother, Lord Jonathan.”

  “Horrors, no!” Poppy exclaimed, a look of shock on her face.

  “Indeed, I shall try and change his mind, but I’ll need time. Speaking of which, you’ve stalled my questions long enough. You spoke to Holly? Tell me! Is she all right?”

  “Well, Holly, you will never believe, is with the Marquis of Warton.”

  “Warton?” Willow asked, shocked. “That surly man? However did that come about?”

  “Apparently he has agreed to whisk her off to the country. Though I overheard one of the servants say that the duke has dispatched men in search of Holly, even the roads to Derbyshire.”

  “Have you been eavesdropping the entire morning?” Willow asked, some of the tightness in her chest eased. Warton might be surly, but he was an honorable man and a friend of her cousin Belle’s.

  “What can I say? It is a skill.”

  “Just the same, of all the outcomes I considered, this one never crossed my mind—Holly running straight from her wedding into Warton’s protection. Now that’s a craft. I thought she’d seek refuge with our cousins.”

  A smile twisted Poppy’s lips. “Our sister has found another champion—she must give me tips when this is all over.”

  “At least she will be safe, as safe as she can be with the duke after her. Let us hope she does not fall in love with Warton, as well. Just think about the drama.”

  “Do not even jest!” Poppy tossed a pillow at her. “She wishes to see you before you leave, Willow. She’s worried about you. Warton shall send a carriage in case you can slip away.”

  “I shall try my best,” Willow said, meeting Poppy’s gaze. She wanted desperately to meet with Holly and feared her sister might feel some resentment toward her—that she would not understand what had driven Willow to do the very thing she’d run from.

  “Good,” Poppy leaned forward, glancing at the door. “But be careful. I overheard St. Ives order the servants to inform him of your whereabouts at all times.”

  Willow’s eyes widened. “And you are only telling me this now?”

  “I’ve had other things on my mind, you know.”

  “I cannot believe I have become a prisoner in my own home.”

  “It sounds rather thrilling to me.” Poppy gave her a devilish smile.

  “Of course it would. You are just as bad as Holly!”

  Poppy shrugged. “Since you are quite decided on the matter, why not have a bit of fun with it?”

  Willow sent her a bemused look. “Do you know the duke does not even know my name?”

  “No,” Poppy drew out, this time real shock on her face. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes! And when he attempted to guess, he guessed wrong.”

  “How shocking! A husband that doesn’t know his wife’s name.” Poppy’s eyes glazed with unspent laughter. “I wonder if he recalls mine.”

  “I very much doubt it. But slow-witted or not, his guard is up. He may suspect I might sneak out.”

  “Then you must wait until the duke falls asleep,” Poppy suggested.

  “And what if he falls asleep next to me?” Willow said in a low voice. Now that seemed a thrilling prospect and she turned away before her sister could see her blush.

  “I suppose crawling over him won’t help?”

  Willow spun around. “Do not say such things!” Because then she’d imagine them. In fact, she already was. The vision of the duke naked and her crawling over his powerful chest was slowly burning into her mind. Her face flamed.

  “You are probably right. He would wake to you wriggling all over him.”

  Crawl. Wriggle. The idea of simply touching her husband, no matter what way, caused her heart to accelerate at a rapid pace.

  This was a severe complication.

  “No matter, I shall come up with a plan,” Willow said reso
lutely. She would meet her sister tonight. “So, you do not believe me impossibly selfish for my decision?”

  “Of course not,” Poppy said. “There is no shame in seizing an opportunity when it presents itself. Carpe diem, correct? And you saved our family from ruin.”

  “I believe the correct phrasing is carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.”

  “I never can remember the last part,” Poppy said with a grimace. “It burns my ears just to hear it.”

  “Yes, well, it’s not about just seizing the day because tomorrow may never come; it’s about trusting in the future.” Willow needed to believe that more than ever.

  “If memory serves,” Poppy corrected, “The last part means something along the lines of trusting as little as possible in the future.”

  Not where Willow was going with that . . .

  “Whatever shall I do now that you are married and Holly has gone into retreat?” Poppy continued. “And probably having the time of her life.”

  “I am sure you will find a pot of trouble to stir,” Willow said with wry amusement.

  “If only that were true,” Poppy said, eyes sparkling.

  It was certainly true in Willow’s case. She had stirred a great big pot. She didn’t know where to start to become the wife she wished to be. Because from the second she had dressed in her sister’s wedding gown, one thought had frozen her mind. A question, really, that had lodged itself right in the center of her heart.

  Was this the beginning of a grand life, or the end of one?

  Chapter 5

  Boundaries. Rules. Limitations.

  Ambrose thrived on them.

  Required them.

  A lack of them was what had gotten Celia, his sister, killed ten years ago. And Ambrose would never forgive himself for that. He ought to have taken better care of her. He ought to have done a great many things. But he could not change any of that now. He could, however, ensure that it never happened again.

  Because Ambrose refused to suffer from the pain of such a loss again.

  Ergo, rules.

  Good, dependable, rules. Rules for a balanced, healthy life. Rules his wife would follow even though she posed no threat to his heart. She posed other threats, such as driving him mad with her scent and occupying his mind, but not his heart.

  He paced the length of his study.

  Ambrose never paced.

  But threat or no threat, she was part of his family and would be protected as such.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose.

  He still didn’t know his wife’s name.

  “My dear,” “sweetheart,” and “honey” were what her family had called her all day, never her name. Ambrose could almost believe she had no name.

  His head jerked up when Charles Middleton, his father-in-law, and Bradford Middleton, the Earl of Dashwood, entered his study. He motioned for them to take a seat.

  “You are aware of your daughters’ actions,” Ambrose stated, getting to the point as he sank into the chair behind his desk.

  “Hard to miss you marrying the wrong woman,” Dashwood drawled.

  Ambrose glowered at him before turning to Charles Middleton. “Your daughter breached our betrothal contract.”

  “My daughters have always been willful,” Charles Middleton said in way of agreement. Or apology. Ambrose wasn’t quite sure. “I fear I am to blame for that having indulged them their every whim.”

  And yet there was no remorse in the man’s voice. Not a hint of regret.

  “Of course, we will cover any sum of penalty you require,” Dashwood said in a business-like manner.

  “I don’t want your money,” Ambrose growled. “I want you to honor the betrothal agreement—except now to my brother, Lord Jonathan.”

  Both men stiffened.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace, but if my daughter did not wish to marry you, she will not wish to wed Lord Jonathan,” Charles Middleton said, disapproval etched in his features.

  “And yet she did wish to marry me, up until four minutes before the ceremony.”

  “That does make one wonder, does it not?” Dashwood folded his arms across his chest. “What could have changed my cousin’s mind?”

  Charles Middleton nodded in accord. “That it does.”

  A rueful smile curved Ambrose’s lips. If they wanted to get a rise out of him, they would wait to eternity. “This is a matter of honor, not what your daughter desires.”

  “As far as I am concerned, the betrothal agreement has been met,” Charles Middleton said. “You wished to marry my daughter and you have. Or am I to understand you have grown fond of Holly?”

  “Holly was the name on the betrothal contract,” Ambrose said, deadpan.

  “St. Ives, let me be frank. I am far too fond of my daughters to be bullied into entering agreements they do not want, or no longer desire to be tied to. As such, if Willow wants an annulment—”

  “She will get it when hell freezes over,” Ambrose declared, cutting Charles Middleton off. “There will be no annulment.”

  Willow.

  The name suited her.

  “If my cousin wants—”

  “Your cousin married me,” Ambrose interrupted, his tone dry as dust. He’d be damned if he annulled this marriage. They could just try to make him. “I’d say she made her choice.”

  “My daughter may have felt she had no other choice in the matter.”

  “But she did have a choice. And she chose.” Ambrose reclined back in his chair. “To annul our marriage now would ruin all three of your daughters.”

  The man did not even bat an eye. “I already stated I would not be bullied. Make no mistake, St. Ives: if my daughter wishes for an annulment, she will get one, or I will take her away from you, your wrath be damned.”

  The blood in his head throbbed until Ambrose thought it might implode from the pressure. Dark energy welled inside him, choking him. No one, not her father, not her cousin, not the Royal bloody Regiment, would take his wife from him.

  An annulment would reinstate the absurd clause in his father’s will but Ambrose feared it was more than that. He did not understand where this sentiment came from exactly, given that he’d planned to ignore his wife after marrying her, but it was there all the same. From the moment he had stared down into her willful blue eyes in the church, her open defiance of her vows, something had sparked to life inside of him. He was keeping his wife. He was keeping Willow—and that was that.

  But he said nothing to the men sitting across from him, keeping his face impassive.

  “As for betrothing my daughter to Lord Jonathan, I shall consider it as I understand that wrong has been done this day. But I will speak to Holly first.”

  “And where is your charming,” conniving “daughter?”

  Something shifted in the man’s gaze, and all of Ambrose’s senses went on alert. He did not know.

  “I want to know what the hell you did to make my cousin run away from you,” Dashwood growled, shifting focus from the topic. “If you hurt her . . .”

  Ambrose shot the man a cold look. There were moments in every man’s life when his character was tested by his actions—on whether he showed restraint or acted out.

  Such a moment was upon Ambrose.

  He wanted nothing more than to fly over the desk and lay Dashwood to the ground. But he refrained from the urge, flexing and relaxing his fists. His restraint was why he never thought himself as a browbeating man, even if it was clear these two men thought just that.

  All his life he had done what’s right—for the most part. It was a point of pride, even though his methods were crusty. His character was beyond reproach. He could control any impulse to the contrary. But he was an imperious man—of that he harbored no delusions.

  But the entire situation was damned irritating.

  Of course, Ambrose hadn’t expected his wife’s family to idly sit by, but dash it all to hell! They were supposed to placate him, not tear into him. He had been the one jilted. Their family had
caused the scandal.

  “Careful, Dashwood,” Ambrose drawled in a tight voice. “There are limits to my tolerance. I have certainly not done anything to warrant a breach of contract.”

  “But you did do something.” Fury flashed in the depth of Dashwood’s gaze.

  “From where I am sitting, your cousin is the one who did something, not me.”

  “Holly fled the wedding, presumably from you, and Willow married you. So for whatever bloody reason, you are in the middle of it. I just don’t know why.”

  Ambrose folded his arms over his chest. “Well then, we are all at a loss. Perhaps flaunting convention has finally led to your daughter’s actions. But for whatever reason, Holly humiliated my family today. You have my offer of appeasement.”

  But Dashwood wasn’t done. “My cousin may be your wife, but if you hurt her in any way, St. Ives, I will—”

  “Do not threaten me, Dashwood,” Ambrose growled. “I am not a bastard. I do not harm women.”

  Dashwood clenched his jaw. The man still wasn’t finished. “There are other ways to harm a woman.”

  Ambrose stiffened. He was a man that could take all manner of insults. He was also used to envious comments and sniping looks, but the one thing he would not—did not—tolerate was being told that he lacked the ability to take care of those in his charge.

  “Surely you are not implying I cannot care for my wife?” His words were soft, a challenge.

  “There is one thing you ought to know about my cousins, and that is that they are damn resourceful,” Dashwood answered.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Ambrose demanded.

  Charles Middleton shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It was clear both men expected him to know what Dashwood meant. He was bloody well aware the Middleton chits were crafty. And even if he hadn’t been aware of it, today would have proven it. So why were they talking to him in damn riddles?

  “I see you don’t take my meaning.”