The Grace of a Duke

by Linda Rae Sande

  His Grace Visits Lady Charlotte in Her Bedchamber

  Despite having lived with the wound on her back for five days, Charlotte still caught herself attempting to do things which caused her a great deal of pain. Her maid, Parma, had helped her undress, carefully undoing the fastenings of her dinner gown and removing petticoats and stockings without requiring her to move her arms too much. The bandage that covered her stitches (and wound about her chest to form a sort of makeshift corset) wouldn’t need to be changed until morning, so she opted to don a satiny nightgown and robe, hoping the thin, slick fabric would provide some comfort while she attempted to sleep on her front. Now she found herself at odds. She’d dismissed Parma and now was ready to brush her hair, a task she did every night prior to bed. But whilst trying to lift the brush to the crown of her head, she felt the stitches pull and stopped the movement, hissing as the sudden pain radiated from between her shoulder blades.

  A knock sounded at the door to her bedchamber. “Come,” she called out, thinking that perhaps Parma remembered her stitches and had returned to help with her hair. In the vanity mirror, however, she was stunned to see Joshua’s reflection as he leaned against the already closed door. Rising quickly, she turned and performed a curtsy, the movement causing her robe to open. “Good evening, Wainwright.” The greeting came out a bit breathy, her surprise at seeing him evident.

  Joshua gave a leg, his own robe staying closed quite tightly about his middle. He regarded Charlotte for a moment, his breath no longer under his own control as he drank in the sight of her in the shiny cream satin, the fabric clinging to her feminine curves and draping suggestively along her thighs and across the tops of her bare feet. “I thought I might provide some assistance,” he finally said, his suddenly husky voice sounding foreign to his own ears.

  Charlotte colored up, her face taking on a pinkish flush in the golden light from the lamp and fireplace. It took all her resolve not to run to him, to wrap her arms around his neck and press the front of her body against what she knew was a hard body of muscle and bone. “How very kind of you, Your Grace,” she replied. When she saw him wince, she realized almost immediately her error in referring to him as ‘Your Grace’ rather than ‘Wainwright.’

  “I would prefer you call me Joshua when we are alone,” he stated as he moved toward her.

  What happened to ‘Wainwright’? she found herself wondering. ‘Wainwright’ is only proper. Duchesses call their dukes by their surnames all the time. “Joshua,” she repeated, as if attempting to say the name for the first time. She watched him approach. Whatever is he doing in my bedchamber? she wondered, remembering the doctor’s instructions. He knew she couldn’t lie with him, knew the stitches in her back would be there for nearly a week. “I was … trying to brush my hair,” she whispered, inhaling sharply as he finally stopped mere inches in front of her.

  Joshua allowed his lips to curl up on his good side. “And were you succeeding?” he asked in a whisper, knowing full well that her mass of blonde curls hadn’t yet been combed out. If so, the silky strands would be wavy and appear as spun silk, just like his mother’s. He reached for the hairbrush, his body impossibly close as Charlotte realized what he intended. A frisson passed through her body.

  “Not in the least,” she replied, regarding him warily. She lowered herself back into the vanity chair and faced the looking glass, watching Joshua’s reflection in the mirror as he very slowly drew the hairbrush through the lower half of her hair, his hands holding up entire sections so any knots would come out without causing pain. When he started the strokes farther up on her head, Charlotte closed her eyes as the bristles caressed her scalp, the feeling so sensual she nearly moaned. Her body felt boneless as he continued to stroke, slowly pulling the brush from the top of her head through its entire mid-back length.

  “How many?” he asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

  The question seemed to percolate for several seconds before Charlotte’s eyes cleared. “How many?” she repeated, not sure what he meant given the hypnotic trance she’d been put into by the sensation of the brush.

  Joshua had to suppress a grin. “How many strokes do you usually do each evening?” he asked, watching her reflection in the mirror while keeping the masked side of his face from appearing there.

  Charlotte’s mouth formed an ‘o’ and she returned his gaze. “One-hundred,” she replied quietly, realizing she hadn’t been keeping track. But his long, even strokes were done with a practiced hand; she could tell from the amount of pressure he applied as well as how careful he was when the brush caught a tangle in her hair. “You’ve done this before,” she added with a sigh, enjoying the feel of the brush against her scalp, of his hands holding and stroking her hair, of his eyes as they watched her reactions in the mirror.

  Grinning at the accusation, Joshua nodded. “Only for my sister,” he admitted, the comment causing his throat to suddenly constrict. He schooled his features so as not to show his distress and instead imagined doing it every night for Charlotte. Could we truly have a life together as a married couple? he wondered suddenly, his mind grasping at something other than his sister to think about. Would there ever be a time when Charlotte would honor him with affection? Perhaps even …

  Love?

  Was she capable of seeing him as just a man instead of a damaged duke to whom she was betrothed? Would she ever be just a woman he loved because of who she was? The only woman for whom he had ever felt … anything? He stared at her reflection and wondered what their life might be like if they were true partners in marriage, rather than a couple forced to marry out of obligation and duty. They would have children, of course – he must have an heir, he considered. And they could live in the rebuilt Wisborough Oaks in the summers and in London when he had to be there for Parliament, and they could attend all the best balls and host their own soirées for friends and villagers.

  And they would spend their nights together in the same bed, enjoying one another’s company as well as the kissing and coupling. He felt his loins stir at the thought of having her body next to his every night. As he did the previous night, he’d keep her close, on his unscarred side, with one arm around her as her head nestled in the small of his shoulder, her breasts pressed against the side of his chest and her legs intertwined with his. Yes, that was how they would sleep together, he surmised.

  When his vision cleared, he found himself gazing at her in the mirror. But she had turned to look up at him directly, her expression one of wonder, of puzzlement. “A penny for your thoughts?” she whispered gently, not sure if she wanted to break the spell he seemed to be under. His stare had been filled with … was that awe? Affection, perhaps? Could he ever feel love for me?

  Joshua swallowed hard before setting the brush on the vanity. “I will help you to sleep this evening,” he stated, not wanting to hear any protests from her. If she could invade his bedchamber in the middle of the night, so could he invade hers and share her bed, too.

  Charlotte slowly stood up and turned to face her host, her face coloring up. She could hardly believe her ears. What he was proposing was scandalous. But she wasn’t about to point out issues of propriety with a duke.

  Especially not to the one to whom she was betrothed.

  “I would like that very much,” she whispered with a nod, realizing she meant what she said. “But I cannot lie on my back …”

  “I only mean to keep you off your back.” For now, he thought, and then realized that if she could never return the love he felt for her, then he would always keep her off her back.

  Because he would see to it that no one else bedded her, either.

  “Are you ready to retire now?” he asked, his demeanor one of business, as if sharing a bed with a virgin was something he did every night. Is she a virgin? he wondered suddenly, a pang of jealousy catching him unawares as he thought of his brother and the possibility that the rake had already bedded her at some point before his death.

  “Yes,”
Charlotte whispered, nodding as she felt her face redden again. She thought of the bandage wrapped around her torso. “May I … may I keep my gown on?” she asked softly, her lower lip trembling. “The bandage is rather ugly …” But I am sure the scar is even worse.

  Joshua wanted to capture the trembling lip with his own lips, still it and then caress it and suckle it until he owned it, but he reeled at the thought that she was expecting him to take advantage of her, especially given she sported such a fresh wound. He frowned. “Of course,” he responded, “And your dressing gown, as well, if you prefer,” he added for good measure. He turned and led her to the bed. The thought of his brother invaded his thoughts again. “Are you a virgin?” he blurted, more surprised that he actually asked it aloud than she was, given her mild reaction of merely widened eyes.

  “My virtue is intact, of course,” Charlotte replied, her head nodding as she shed her dressing gown and then sat on the edge of the bed. “It belongs to you,” she added as she moved to slide her legs under the downturned linens.

  Joshua regarded her from the side of the bed, at once relieved at the news but stunned by her statement. And he was even more surprised that she would remove her dressing gown without asking him to turn around. The nightgown she wore was very revealing, it’s fabric tracing every feminine curve of her petite, luscious body, including the two peaks on the tips of her breasts. “My brother? He never ..?” he stuttered, trying to keep his mind on the conversation. John Wainwright II was a rake. To take a woman’s virtue was a sport to him. For him to have allowed Charlotte to retain her maidenhood despite their betrothal was a surprise to Joshua.

  Charlotte shook her head. “You are to be thanked for that,” she stated, settling into the mattress on her left side.

  Joshua climbed into the bed, his face taking on a look of confusion. “And how did I … help in that regard?” he asked, bewildered.

  “If you would prefer to remove your robe, it is certainly agreeable with me,” Charlotte suggested, not meaning to change the subject but wanting him to know she had no objections before he was settled into the mattress. “And you really should take off your mask, too. The doctor said it would be better for your skin if you did.”

  Stunned at her suggestions, Joshua considered how to respond. He leaned over and turned down the lamplight to a dim glow, not wanting Charlotte to see him nude, especially given the swath of scars down his left side.

  Had she been aware of his nakedness the night before?

  Her initial state of terror suggested she hadn’t noticed, but he remembered the last few moments she’d spent in his bed, her conversation completely coherent and her probing fingers caressing his scars so that, for the one and only time since the night of the fire, he experienced shivers of sensual pleasure radiating from that part of his body. Remembering the sensation, he turned so his left side could not be seen from the bed and quickly doffed his robe.

  From her place in the bed, Charlotte watched, careful to keep quiet when her breath caught at the sight of his erection in silhouette. A frisson passed through her belly, and her breasts suddenly felt heavy.

  Joshua dove under the covers, careful in where he settled in the mattress. Although Charlotte had given him plenty of room, she wriggled up next to him and placed her head on his shoulder as her satin-sheathed breasts pressed against the unscarred side of his chest. Joshua swallowed in an attempt to retain control of himself. “You didn’t answer my question. And when did you talk to the doctor about me?” he asked, annoyance in his voice as he removed his mask and let it fall haphazardly on the bedside table.

  Charlotte considered how to answer both questions. “Do you recall attending the Sothesby’s ball? About … three years ago?” she countered, shivering as his right hand, in an effort to find a good place to rest, landed on the swell of her hip. He was about to pull it away when she placed her own hand atop it before she angled her body a bit more against his, causing his hand to trail down around her bottom.

  “Yes,” he replied carefully, deciding that having his hand rest on her satin-clad bottom was rather comfortable, and she didn’t seem to mind. “Around your eighteenth birthday, as I recall,” he murmured.

  “Yes!” Charlotte agreed. “Your brother talked me into going with him to the library.”

  “Oh, God,” Joshua interrupted, suddenly remembering the incident as he was still thinking of where his hand was resting.

  “And, although I was agreeable with him stealing a kiss, he was wont to steal more.”

  Joshua stayed quiet as he remembered the night of the ball. He’d known his brother would try something with Charlotte that evening. The rake had even taken bets on how long Charlotte’s virtue would remain intact after the first set of dances. So when his brother had ushered her out of the ballroom, presumedly to get some air, Joshua followed. And he watched as John led her to the library and the settee within. When the two did not come out of the library after a few moments, Joshua fumed. He’d been angry with his brother that night, angry and jealous, so when he heard her muted protests coming from inside the library, he opened the door to find Charlotte’s bodice askew and John with a hand on her bared breast. He strode across the room, lifted his brother from the settee with one hand, and pummeled his face with the other. A startled John was left with a bloody nose and a shiner that lasted more than a week. Charlotte disappeared from the room, and queries as to her location indicated she had left the ball complaining of a headache.

  “I never did thank you properly for saving me,” she whispered, her right arm snaking across his chest as if to hug him.

  Joshua kissed the top of her head, wondering what she had in mind as a ‘thank you’.

  “Now, if it had been you in that library,” Charlotte suggested quietly, “I do not believe my reaction would have been the same.” She bit her lip, surprised she’d made the comment aloud. He’ll think me wanton. It was too soon to admit her feelings for him. Did he just kiss my head? She had no idea how he felt about her, if, indeed, he had any feelings for her. And she wasn’t about to declare her love for him if he did not feel some sort of affection for her in return.

  Inhaling sharply, Joshua considered what she implied. He’d wanted her, to be sure. Always had, from the time they were old enough to meet at balls and soirées and musicales. But she was to be his brother’s bride – his brother’s countess and eventually his duchess. And he wasn’t about to do something that would embarrass the family. That would jeopardize her standing in the ton.

  That would force him to declare his love for her.

  “Do you think me wanton for having said that?”

  Yes! God, yes, he thought happily, hoping he’d interpreted her meaning correctly. “Are you saying you would have allowed me the liberties my brother was ultimately denied?” he wondered, struggling to keep his voice even.

  Charlotte wished she could see his face, but the dim light from the lamp kept it in deep shadow. “Something like that,” she murmured sleepily. There, I’ve admitted just a bit, she thought, wondering if he would ever let her know if he had feelings for her. She realized he hadn’t answered her question, but thought better of asking again. No need to make him think me wanton by repeating it.

  Remembering his other accusatory question, she changed the subject. “And it was Dr. Regan who suggested that you not wear your mask so much. When he was stitching up my back this afternoon,” she added as she used the fingers of her right hand to caress the side of his chest as she had done the night before. She was sure she felt ripples beneath the ropy scars, sure her touch was somehow beneficial, if not to his healing, then at least to his psyche. From the sound of his breath catching and his occasional sighs, she determined she at least wasn’t causing him pain. “Is it … agreeable that I am doing this?” she whispered, swirling her fingers around his scars to indicate what she meant.

  “Mmm,” Joshua replied, his eyes closed and sleep quickly taking him. The gentle touches were soothing, the play
ful circular strokes were sensual, and the touch of her entire body pressed against the side of him was positively heaven. So, although he could imagine himself making love to Charlotte that very moment, Joshua Wainwright instead fell into a deep, satisfying slumber, one he hadn’t experienced for many, many months.

  And Charlotte Bingham sighed as she settled against his body, taking solace in the fact that, although nothing had been said as to if they would wed, at least they were sharing the same bed.

  Chapter 17

  Mr. McElliott Learns the Truth of Attempted Murder

  “I have decided I rather like being married,” Garrett murmured sleepily, his arm wrapped under Jane’s shoulder as he held her against him. They were still lying in bed, legs intertwined and bodies pressed together in a loose embrace when the sun lit the room, its pale morning light bathing the room in a soft glow. He felt a bubble of laughter emerge from Jane as she clung to him, her deft fingers spread over his chest.

  “Have I somehow managed to sleep through a few days?” she whispered, her lips touching his ribs as she spoke.

  Garrett grinned at her comment and at the sensation her lips created against his skin. “I think that I have felt married … well, betrothed, at least … since that first night I spent with you,” he admitted quietly.

  Jane smiled, her lips taking purchase on one of his nipples to gently kiss and nibble it. “Because I gave you my virtue, do you suppose?”

  Well, that was certainly part of it, he thought. He’d been so surprised when he’d undressed her that first night, her body trembling as his fingers undid buttons and stays and rolled stockings down her shapely legs. He had taken his time, wanting her to realize he wasn’t simply there for a quick tumble. The longer he took, the more likely she’d be left with a good impression of him and invite him to her bed again.

  But he wasn’t prepared for her to be a virgin.

  She worked in a gaming hell, after all, with the equivalent of a small brothel on the third floor. Although he hadn’t assumed she made part of her living on her back – he hadn’t given it much thought really – he also didn’t imagine that her maidenhead would be intact. She was six-and-twenty, well past the age that most women married. “It was the best gift I have ever received,” he finally answered, trailing a finger across her shoulder. “Still, I wish it were Saturday,” he replied, moving his other arm so that it was under his head.