How to Deceive a Duke

by Lecia Cornwall

  Meg turned her face forward, trying to ignore the tingle that raced up her arm from his touch. She concentrated on the churchman’s untidy ruff of white hair. He intoned the ceremony in a rich bass voice, and the words echoed through the church, daring anyone to decry the match that God had ordained.

  Meg stared up at the saints in the stained glass windows, holding her breath, waiting for them to descend and denounce her as a fraud, but they remained silent.

  She repeated her vows, her stomach knotted against her deception, stumbling only a little as she whispered her own name in place of her sister’s. She glanced sideways at the stranger by her side, but he was staring at the wall, looking thoroughly bored. Annoyed, she tried to withdraw her hand from his, but his grip instantly tightened like iron, though he did not move otherwise, or even look at her.

  He spoke his vows in a deep growl that vibrated over her nerves. He promised to take someone named Daisy to wife. This time, when she glanced up at him, he had the audacity to smile, a grin of pure, breathtaking devilment. She drew a breath and almost forgot to exhale. This was the Devil of the scandal sheets, the rogue, the lover, the rake . . . and with the final “I will,” her husband.

  She thought of everything that meant, and her skin grew warm, the heat radiating from their joined hands, spreading through her limbs like fire. It was too late for regrets. She swayed, and his grip tightened again, silently commanding her not to dare to swoon. She’d never swooned in her life, but if ever there was a time for it, this was probably it. She straightened her spine instead.

  Nicholas felt her sway, and refused to let her faint. It was a silly female trick he detested. Her fingers were icy in his, and he could feel her pulse racing under his hand. She was nervous, perhaps even afraid of him.

  Good.

  He frowned at the heavy veil she wore, felt pity and dismay. She must be hideous.

  All he could see of her face as she walked up the aisle was her mouth. She had full lips, sweetly pink, damp and parted. He watched in fascination as she caught her lower lip between white teeth the moment she saw him. He let his gaze roam over the rest of her. Her gown was a shade of pink that resembled a blush. It almost matched the color of her skin, making it appear from a distance that she wore nothing at all. She was tall, but her figure was impossible to gauge behind the massive bouquet of roses. His gut churned with frustration, and anger—at her, at his grandmother, at himself for agreeing to this sham.

  He frowned, and she stopped in her tracks.

  Hector Bryant tugged her forward, and her pretty mouth set itself into more determined lines as she came the last few steps toward him. The pulse in her throat throbbed, and the roses shivered against her bosom. In any other situation, he would have been sorry for her fear, done his best to soothe it.

  But this woman had chosen to marry a stranger, and she was being well paid for it. She didn’t need his pity.

  She glanced back at Hector as she put her hand in his, and he noted the slimness of her waist, the delicacy of her figure as she turned. He tightened his grip on her hand, and she looked up at him. At least he thought she had. He couldn’t be sure through the heavy layers of lace that fashioned her veil.

  She took her place beside him and squared her shoulders like a soldier going into battle, finding comfort in her own courage since he hadn’t offered any. He felt a surge of admiration that belonged on a battlefield, and shook it off.

  He could smell her perfume over the scent of the roses, something soft and enticing, slightly spicy, definitely intriguing. He turned away, studied the rear door, wondering what would happen if he bolted through it, left her here. He didn’t hear a word of her breathless vows.

  When the time came to lift the veil and kiss her, he held his breath, steeling himself not to flinch, no matter what she looked like. Not for her sake, but because he wouldn’t give his grandmother the satisfaction. He could feel Granddame’s gaze on him like a blade at his throat.

  He braced himself and lifted the veil.

  He stared down at her. She wasn’t hideous.

  She was beautiful.

  He met wide eyes that held a kaleidoscope of colors, gold, brown, and green, set in a lush fringe of copper-tipped lashes. Her features were delicate, perfectly formed, her nose dusted with faint freckles that suggested she spent time outdoors and didn’t always wear a bonnet or carry a parasol. Under his scrutiny, she blushed. He was trying to recall the last time he’d seen a maidenly blush when his eyes found her mouth.

  Her lips were parted slightly, perhaps in awe of him, perhaps in anticipation of the kiss that would seal their vows.

  He lowered his head, intent on that unexpectedly glorious mouth, but the instant his lips touched hers, she slammed her mouth shut, and the kiss was disappointingly hard and unyielding, a virgin’s kiss. He frowned as she pulled away and dropped the veil back over her face. He felt as if a curtain had been drawn too soon on what he’d hoped would be a very tantalizing performance. Disappointment warred with anger as he turned to face the bishop.

  Meg barely heard the last few words the bishop spoke over them. She was trembling when Temberlay led her down the aisle, her wrist clenched in his fist. She had to run to keep up with his long strides. All she could think of were his eyes. They weren’t green. They were gray, and as cold and forbidding as the winter sea. A dozen emotions had passed through the depths of his eyes as he stared down at her—resignation, surprise, curiosity, and something she couldn’t name that made her intensely aware that she stood just inches from the heat and power of a male body for the first time in her life.

  When he bent to kiss her, she felt the soft exhalation of his breath on her mouth, smelled the spice of his soap, the tang of leather, and she was more afraid in that moment than she’d ever been in her life. She slammed her eyes shut and puckered. He pulled back with a frown and she read confusion and anger in his eyes. Hot blood filled her cheeks, and she pulled her veil back over her face to hide her dismay.

  He grabbed her wrist without a word and strode down the aisle, dragging her behind him.

  Her mother sobbed as they raced past, the sound of her grief echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Hector looked grim. The duchess stood stiffly silent in the family pew. If she knew, she gave no sign that her grandson had married the wrong woman.

  The rest of the church was nearly empty. Other than immediate family, no one at all had been invited to the wedding.

  Realization shook her anew as the bells began to peal. The man dragging her out of the church at a dead run was her husband. For better or worse—probably more the latter than the former—she was married.

  The Devil of Temberlay was not so amusing now.

  She glanced up at St. George as they swept out of the church and whispered a prayer, but the saint had slain his dragon, and she was on her own.

  Chapter 10

  Temberlay dragged her down the steps, his grip like iron. Meg flinched as handfuls of wheat hit her like hail. She tried to tug free to slow down, but he hurried on, ignoring her struggles.

  He reached the nearest coach and opened the door. “Hartley Place, Rogers,” he ordered as he thrust her into the dark interior.

  She perched stiffly on the plush seat, and he settled himself across from her. She examined her husband from under the veil as the coach lurched away from the curb. The velvet squabs were dark green, which made his coat look all the more garish. She felt a bubble of hysterical laughter catch in her throat, though aside from his attire, there was nothing at all amusing about him. The caricatures didn’t begin to do him justice. He was better-looking, bigger, and far more dangerous in person. He bore no resemblance at all to the playful rascal in the scandal sheets.

  “You can take off that veil now, Daisy,” he said, and she stiffened at his insolent use of the wrong name. Even Rose would have been better.

  “Daisy might take hers off, but I have no intention of doing so,” she said, and bit her lip. She sounded like a prim little fool.


  He sent her a lazy smile that turned her insides to jelly. Men smiled like that at Rose, not Marguerite. He plucked a rose from her bouquet and brought it to his nose in a polished gesture.

  “If I call you Rose, and ask nicely, will you comply?”

  Suddenly Meg did not want to be called by her sister’s name. Not by this man.

  “No,” she said stubbornly.

  “Surely I’ve earned the right to look at you. I married you, and you’ve been well paid for the honor of becoming Duchess of Temberlay,” he said coldly.

  “Not well enough paid to endure insults! Are you drunk?” She’d read that he drank four bottles of wine at breakfast, switched to whisky, gin, and stout at lunch, and enjoyed countless glasses of champagne by night.

  He raised his brows. “Not at the moment, but I intend to remedy that as soon as I get home. I wonder when I’ll need the solace of drink more—before or after I bed you?”

  Her stomach flipped. Something in his eyes told her this would be very different indeed from the mating of horses, or from the casual kisses Rose had described, or anything else in her narrow realm of experience. She would not let him know that, however. She raised her chin and bluffed. “Let’s make it before, shall we? I hear that drink renders a man incapable.” She’d seen that tidbit in a scandal sheet somewhere, hadn’t she? He laughed, hardly the response she’d hoped for.

  “That’s never been a problem for me,” Nicholas drawled. She was quick-witted, at least, if tart-tongued. He watched her incredible mouth work. Her mouth rippled in trepidation as she wondered if she’d gone too far. Even with the rest of her face hidden, that one feature betrayed a dozen emotions. He’d read disapproval, fear, pride, and determination, all from observing nothing more than her lips. It was fascinating, made him wonder what it would be like to kiss her properly.

  Was she as untried as rumor reported? “Have you been disappointed by an inebriated lover in the past? Show me the cad, and I’ll call him out on your behalf.”

  Her lips gaped in maidenly mortification. Was she blushing under the veil, or on the verge of tears? To his surprise, she laughed, and clapped a hand over her mouth.

  He frowned. He wanted to discomfit her, not amuse her. He picked up her hand and pulled off her glove, and tossed it out the window for effect. Her smile faded, and her lips trembled when he touched her.

  He looked at her hand. Her fingers were cold and stiff, though long and delicately made. Her skin was tanned, and he felt a roughness on her palm and turned her hand to look at it. Her skin was calloused and red, as if she scrubbed floors for a living.

  Another curiosity. Ladies did not have rough skin, or freckles. Aside from the fact she had pretty eyes, work-worn hands, a delectable mouth, and a quick tongue, he knew nothing about her at all.

  She clenched her hand, tried to draw back, but he opened it again, and brought it to his lips, and kissed her palm and her fingertips. He felt the tremor run through her, heard her sharp intake of breath. Her lower lip caught in her teeth. Intrigued by the reaction, he let his lips linger on the hectic pulse point in her wrist. When he slid his hand along her arm, seeking the soft skin at her elbow, she gasped and pulled away, hiding her hand in her lap, her chest heaving, lips parted in surprise.

  He shifted in his seat. The erotic teasing had unsettled her, but it also had an unexpected effect on him. Perhaps it was the fact that her face was hidden, or that she was a stranger and an innocent, though he had never found virgins to his taste before. He sat back, crossed his legs to hide his arousal and reminded himself that this was duty, not pleasure. Tantalizing as she was to toy with, she was still likely to prove a disappointment in bed. He stared out the window and did his best to ignore her, but her perfume tugged at his curiosity, and the sound of her breath and the rustle of her gown made him intensely aware of her.

  Meg’s hand tingled. Actually, everything tingled. He’d only held her hand, yet she felt his touch everywhere. The look in his eyes made her feel naked. Under her clothes her body pulsed and throbbed. She was out of her depth, drowning in sensation, and he had merely kissed her fingers.

  She drew a shaky breath and gazed at him from the feeble sanctuary of her veil, imagining what else was to come, but he was staring out the window with a world-weary expression as if he’d forgotten her. His hands lay folded in his lap. She imagined those long fingers caressing her skin, his body joined to hers. His hands, his thighs . . . She shut her eyes and gave an involuntary moan. He shot her a look, his brows rising into his hairline.

  “Pardon?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she murmured, and clutched the roses tighter, suddenly anxious to be out of his overwhelming presence. By tomorrow it would be over—the wedding, the bedding, everything but the gossip. Surely his—their—hasty marriage would be the talk of London as soon as the notice was published in the respectable pages of the Morning Post. She shut her eyes, imagining the wicked delight the scandal sheets would take in her marriage if—when—her deception was discovered. Vultures swooped in her chest again.

  The coach pulled up beneath the portico in front of Hartley Place, and Meg looked out at the imposing town house. The Temberlay crest, a snarling wolf poised over the body of a slain doe, was carved in stone above the front door. She gazed up at it in horror for a moment, wondering if she dared to see this through. It was wrong to deceive him, even for so good a reason. Surely Temberlay would eat her alive when he discovered he’d been tricked into marrying the plain Lynton sister, cheated out of the beauty he expected. She felt pity for him, and a pang of guilt. The poor man expected a swan, and he was getting the ugly duckling, the daughter Lord Wycliffe himself had said no one would ever want.

  And when her deception was discovered, the duchess would no doubt be pleased to assist her grandson in making a meal of her. They’d add a fork and knife to the coat of arms to warn away future generations of foolish virgins.

  The door opened and two rows of footmen marched out, wearing impeccable livery, and stood between the coach and front door. Nicholas climbed out of the vehicle in a lithe movement. To her dismay he walked straight up the steps without offering his hand, or even bothering to glance back at her.

  Her pity faded and guilt turned to acid. She felt herself flush under the curious eyes of the servants. She stared at Temberlay’s broad back, and waited for someone to point and laugh and send the coach away with her still inside it.

  Instead, a gloved hand appeared and she took it and climbed out. The decision had been made, the vows spoken. There was no turning back. She must begin as she meant to go on.

  She pasted on a gracious smile and nodded at each footman as if she belonged here. For better or worse, she was from this moment on the Duchess of Temberlay.

  Chapter 11

  Temberlay went through the front door without pausing, and Meg followed him into a magnificent entry hall that seemed to be carved from one enormous block of marble. The ceiling soared three stories above the floor. A grand staircase soared heavenward. She gaped like a tourist.

  Temberlay’s hat sat on a mahogany table, and she could hear the click of his boot heels echoing from one of the myriad corridors that led off the entry. The front door closed behind her and the footmen melted into the walls. As the sound of footsteps faded entirely, she clutched the bouquet to her chest, unsure of what to do.

  “Good afternoon, Your Grace. I’m Gardiner, the butler.” She hadn’t heard him approach, and she wondered for a moment if he’d appeared straight out of the marble. “Welcome to Hartley Place. If you will come this way?” He indicated one of the corridors with a gloved hand.

  Unlike his master, the man didn’t make a sound as he moved over the marble floor. He opened a pair of doors that led to a salon.

  Temberlay was lounging in a chair, his booted feet propped on a delicate tea table, a tumbler of golden liquid in his hand. He tossed it back quickly and held out the empty glass to Gardiner, who silently refilled it.

  Her husband didn’t invite
her to sit, so she did so on her own, choosing a settee as far from him as possible.

  “May I offer you some tea, Your Grace?” Gardiner asked, and she looked at Temberlay.

  He tilted his head mockingly. “Gardiner means you, Duchess. Do you want tea? I never touch it myself.”

  She wished the floor would open and swallow her. She managed to smile at the patient butler. “Thank you. Tea would be most welcome.”

  He bowed and glided out, closing the doors behind him. Alone in Temberlay’s disturbing presence, Meg listened to the tick of the clock. It was barely noon. She had been married less than an hour.

  “Isn’t it hot under that veil?” he asked, and she jumped. It was indeed, and she couldn’t hide her face forever. She set her bouquet aside and raised the lace, folding it back from her forehead with nervous fingers. He regarded her with lazy interest, offering no hint of either approval or disappointment. She held his gaze boldly, though she could feel her skin growing hot. She looked away first and studied a landscape above the mantel as if it were the most fascinating painting on earth.

  No, he hadn’t been mistaken at the church. She was beautiful. The realization that he’d be bedding her in just a few hours caught him in the gut with an unexpected rush of lust.

  “You’re hardly what I expected,” he said. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty,” she said, her eyes returning to his. Crisp, intelligent, beautiful eyes. “And you?”

  “Thirty-one in years. Far older by experience,” he quipped, and was rewarded with another blush, though she didn’t seem to know how to reply, and they lapsed back into silence.

  He watched her eyes wander the room, taking in the furnishings, the art, the wallpaper, everything but him.

  “No, you’re not what I expected at all,” he said again to make her look at him. Her brows rose toward the edge of the lace.

  “And just what did you expect, Your Grace?”

  “A woman short on looks and wit, wide of hip.”