The Spring Duchess (A Duchess for All Seasons Book 2)

by Jillian Eaton

  “But you could,” Vanessa pointed out, one pale brow arching. “If you so desired. She is your wife, after all.”

  “And you’re my mistress.” He raked a hand through his hair and stood up to prowl along the foot of the bed as he felt his patience beginning to wear thin. Their conversation was teetering dangerously close to a place neither one of them wished it to go. What did Vanessa want from him? To ignore his wife completely and let Norton steal the dukedom out from under his bloody nose?

  He was going to Hawkridge for one reason and one reason only: to consummate his damn marriage. And once it was done, he would return to London and resume his life as if he’d never left.

  “Let us also not forget you’re married as well,” he said, levelling a bland stare at Vanessa that bordered on annoyance. Arguing with his mistress was the last thing he wanted to do before travelling thirty miles to argue with his wife.

  “That’s different. My husband is a shriveled old man whose cock hasn’t moved in eight years.” The corners of her mouth tightened. “Your wife is young and beautiful.”

  Derek thought of Eleanor’s shocking red hair and freckled cheeks and bit back a snort. “She’s many things. Rude. Impertinent. Clumsy. But beautiful isn’t one of them. You’ve nothing to be jealous of, Vanessa.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. He knew it even before her eyes flashed and her lips twisted in an elegant sneer.

  “Of course I have nothing to be jealous of,” she said coolly. “Eleanor is a country bumpkin who isn’t fit to groom my horse, let alone be a duchess. You were a fool to ever marry her when there were a hundred other girls who would have been more suitable.”

  For the first time since their affair had begun nearly seven months ago, Derek felt a stirring of anger towards Vanessa. He didn’t know where it stemmed from or what had caused it, only that he didn’t care for his mistress making degrading comments about his wife. God knew that Eleanor had been an unusual choice, and Vanessa wasn’t the only one who thought so. But his freckle-faced bride was his choice, for better or worse, and he wouldn’t apologize for it or make excuses.

  “Careful,” he warned. “You are coming perilously close to overstepping your bounds”

  “My bounds?” With a careless, tittering laugh Vanessa sat up and drew one long, silky leg to her chest. “I don’t have bounds, Derek. And if you leave, you will no longer have a mistress.”

  “Are you giving me an ultimatum?” he said incredulously.

  “Call it whatever you wish.”

  His jaw tightened. He’d truly thought he and Vanessa would have more time…but if there was one rule he followed without fail, it was to always end an affair before it became personal.

  Unlike other men, Derek did not have affairs because he was lonely or wanted companionship. When he took a mistress, it was because he was after one thing: unadulterated pleasure. And when that mistress could no longer give him what he desired, he settled a large sum on her and went on his way without remorse or regret.

  “My solicitor will see that you are taken care of,” he said curtly before he picked up his waistcoat and left the room without so much as a backwards glance.

  It was a cold, emotionless end to a scandalously hot affair that had lasted for more than seven months. But if there was one lesson he’d learned from his parents and their untimely demise, it was that it was always better to be the one leaving than the one who was left.

  Mistresses were easily replaced, especially when there were no attachments formed. And he always took great pains to make sure there never were. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in love. It was simply that he didn’t believe in love for himself. He never had, and despite his countless affairs – or mayhap because of them – he doubted if he ever would.

  Love was for poets and dreamers, not for cynical dukes.

  And certainly not for a cynical duke with a wife who kept a hedgehog in her pocket.

  Chapter Seven

  Rain fell relentlessly from a gray and cloudy sky. It was the third spring shower in as many days, which was why Eleanor knew – or at least hoped – it would soon clear. Having gone out early in the morning to care for her animals, she was now stuck inside the carriage shed until the rain lifted.

  The sweet smell of hay permeated the air, while the soft ruffle of feathers and gentle squeaks and snorts (just yesterday she’d rescued two run piglets from a sow who wanted nothing to do with them) created a lilting symphony of contended sounds. If not for her grumbling stomach – and the veritable feast of eggs and bread and sausage that awaited her inside – she would have been perfectly happy to remain in the carriage shed for half the day, if not longer. Especially since any hour (any minute, really) a formidable black coach was going to come trotting up the drive and a man she very much did not want to see was going to emerge.

  Her stomach as she imagined seeing her husband again. Husband. How strange it felt to even think that word! Oh, why did the duke have to come to Hawkridge? She knew it wasn’t to see her. He’d made it very clear when he had banished her to the country that he had absolutely no interest in her whatsoever. What was it he had growled at her as he’d all but shoved her into the carriage after the church ceremony was over? Ah yes, now she remembered.

  “I hope you enjoy Surrey. You’re going to be there for a very long time.”

  Such a romantic, her husband. Sitting cross-legged in a pile of straw, Eleanor reached behind her to draw the piglet she’d dubbed Sir Galahad into her lap. He wiggled when she scratched behind one floppy ear, his tiny wet nostrils quivering with delight, before promptly sprawling his pink body across her leg and falling asleep. Eleanor sighed. Sir Galahad had more manners and decorum in one little pork chop than the Duke of Hawkridge had in his entire body. She liked to think time had improved her husband’s demeanor, but she sincerely doubted it. In her experience men were who they were, and pampered, titled men were the worst of the lot. If only Henny hadn’t stolen her hair pin…but there was no use crying over spilt milk.

  “Look Sir Galahad,” she murmured, glancing up at the window. “The rain has slowed.” Carefully moving the sleeping piglet off her lap, she tip-toed through the straw and slipped out of the carriage shed before any of her pets were the wiser.

  She’d already set the bar in place over the door when she realized she’d forgotten her gloves and hat inside. Gnawing on her bottom lip she considered dashing back in to retrieve them, but that would only cause a ruckus and besides, it was hardly raining at all. No more than a mist, really.

  A mist that abruptly turned into a downpour when she was less than halfway to the manor.

  With a loud shriek Eleanor pulled up her dress, kicked off her flimsy shoes, and raced barefoot across the lawn. She was in such a hurry to get inside that she failed to notice the stately coach pulled by a matching team of bays sitting at the end of the drive. But when she skidded haphazardly into the foyer there was no avoiding the hard chest that greeted her, nor the man the hard chest belonged to.

  Her yelp of surprise was swallowed up by a black greatcoat that smelled faintly of cigar smoke. Strong hands closed around her wrists, trapping them in a manacle like grip. Eleanor found herself tilting her head back and looking up, up, up into a strikingly handsome countenance with bold lips pulled back in a frown, freshly shaven jaw clenched tight, and brandy colored eyes flashing with annoyance. She blinked, and water spilled from her lashes to run down her cheeks in delicate rivulets as a tentative smile curved her mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” she said contritely, wanting to at least try to get off on the right foot this time. Who knew, maybe her husband really had changed, in which case it was only fair to give him the benefit of the doubt. “I was in a rush and didn’t see you standing there.”

  “Clearly,” Derek drawled, his insufferable tone and cold sneer instantly confirming all of her worst fears. The duke wasn’t any kinder or less arrogant than he’d been a year ago. If anything, he was worse! Her smile dimming, she tried to pull h
er hands free, but his grip – while painless – was unrelenting.

  “Let me get a good look at you,” he said, and her eyes narrowed to thin slits of enraged emerald when he began a slow, thorough examination of her body as if she were a horse standing at market.

  “Are you quite finished?” she demanded when his gaze returned at last to her face.

  “Quite. I must say, when I sent word of my arrival I had hoped to be greeted by the Duchess of Hawkridge, not a drowned rat that vaguely resembles the woman I married.” Releasing her wrists, he took a step back and scowled down at her, dark brows forming a rigid line of disapproval above eyes that had deepened to a rich shade of brown. “Where is your hat? Your gloves? Your cloak? And what the devil were you doing outside to begin with? It’s bloody well pouring.”

  “Is it?” Eleanor said with a feigned gasp. “My goodness, I hadn’t noticed. That must be why I’m all wet.”

  “I see time hasn’t dulled your sarcastic wit.”

  “Nor has it cured you of your arrogance,” she retorted.

  They stared hard at one another, neither one willing to be the first to look away. Trapped in a battle of silent wills, they might have stood there all day were it not for Georgiana’s sudden arrival.

  “Derek! You’re here at last!” The dark haired beauty swept across the foyer with enviable grace. Stepping between husband and wife, she subtly nudged Eleanor out of the way before draping her arms around her brother’s shoulders and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “How exhausted you must be after such a long and arduous journey.”

  “He only came from London,” Eleanor couldn’t help but point out. “It’s not as if he just sailed across the Atlantic.”

  “Maybe not, but it appears as though you have.” Georgiana’s nose wrinkled. “Why are you sopping wet? And what is that smell?”

  “I don’t smell anything,” Eleanor said defensively even as she lifted a damp strand of hair and took a quick sniff. Aside from the faint smell of hay – a scent she found quite pleasant – she detected nothing odorous. But apparently she was the only one.

  “My sister is correct,” said Derek, stepping away. “There is a certain…aroma…emanating from your general direction. Please bathe and make yourself presentable before dinner.”

  Effectively dismissed, Eleanor was only too happy to make her escape. Walking quickly out of the foyer, she made a quick detour to the library where Henny was dozing on a pillow in front of the fire and carried the yawning hedgehog up to her private bedchamber. Then, because a late morning nap seemed like an absolutely splendid idea, she stripped down to her linen corset and drawers, settled Henny beside her on the bed, and, lulled by the gentle smattering of rain against the windows, promptly drifted off to sleep.

  Well that hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped. Grinding his teeth together in frustration, Derek stalked into his study and slammed the door in his wake, a loud indication that he was not to be disturbed.

  In anticipation of his arrival the large room, trimmed in mahogany and dark blue drapes, had been swept, dusted, and polished with beeswax. Not a small undertaking given the long wall of floor to ceiling bookshelves and heavy leather furniture, but his staff was nothing if not well trained. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of his wife.

  He had hoped a year in the country with Georgiana might have civilized Eleanor, but if her mud-splattered dress and mop of wet hair were any indication she’d gotten worse instead of better. He had come to Hawkridge expecting to be greeted by a woman who at least resembled a duchess in appearance if not demeanor. Instead he’d gotten a wet street urchin who had looked as if she’d been dragged in off the streets of St Giles.

  Sitting heavily behind his desk, he poured himself a glass of brandy and leaned back in his chair. He stared hard at the ceiling, studying a narrow crack in the white plaster as he wondered how the hell he was going to woo a wife that was more wild than tame.

  Derek knew he would be well within his husbandly rights to force himself upon her, but his stomach rebelled at the thought. If their marriage was consummated – when it was consummated, he corrected as he sat up and took a sip of brandy – Eleanor would be a willing participant. He’d make sure of it. After all, underneath all that mud and behind that shrewish temper was a woman like any other. And if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was charm a woman.

  She’ll be eating out of my palm before the end of the week, he thought confidently before he finished the rest of his brandy and prowled to the large bay window overlooking the east lawn. If not for a heavy fog he would have had a clear view of the stables. Instead the only thing he could make out through the hazy gray mist was the bronze weathervane perched atop the largest barn. A fiftieth anniversary present from his grandmother to his grandfather, it was a large destrier in full gallop. Every year his grandfather had seen to it that the weathervane was taken down and polished, but since his death it had gone untouched and a faint patina had begun to set it, giving the stallion’s mane and tail a greenish tint.

  Absently drumming his fingers along the wooden sill, Derek turned around and let his head fall back against the cool glass with a dull thud. Five years he’d been the duke, and some days it still felt as though his grandfather was standing around the corner, just waiting to lay into him with a blustering diatribe about how much of a disappointment he was. No matter what he’d done, it had never been enough to earn the late duke’s approval…or his respect.

  The cantankerous old bastard had made it very clear he wished it was his son inheriting the title instead of his ‘worthless wastrel of a grandson’. He’d snarled the words so many times that they’d become imprinted in Derek’s subconscious, and more than once he could have sworn he had heard the raspy whisper of his grandfather’s voice late at night when the halls were dark and the moon shone bright.

  Hawkridge Castle may have been the pride and jewel of the dukedom and where he’d spent most of his childhood, but it would never be home. Not as long as his grandfather’s memory continued to lurk in every shadow and corner.

  Pushing away from the window, he returned to his desk and picked up a quill pen. If he was going to be stuck in this Godforsaken place for the undeterminable future, he might as well make the best of it. His solicitor usually took care of his business correspondences, but the man’s wife was expecting a child any day so he had been unable to leave London which meant Derek was – at least temporarily – in charge of his own affairs. Having always had a good head for numbers and a fluid hand, he didn’t mind the extra work. In fact, it was just the distraction he needed.

  A distraction from ghosts.

  A distraction from piqued mistresses.

  And, most importantly, a distraction from red-haired wives with waspish tongues and the biggest, greenest eyes he’d ever seen…

  Chapter Eight

  Eleanor was just emerging from the tub after a long hot soak when the door to her bedchamber suddenly swung open and her husband stormed in. With a loud gasp she instinctively reached for the nearest thing to cover herself with. In this case, a sheer silk wrapper her maid had left draped over the bathing screen. Unfortunately, the flimsy material did little to conceal her nakedness. Instead it clung to her damp flesh like a second skin, and her entire face flushed a dull, deep red when she realized every inch of her body was on full display in the flickering candlelight, from her dusky pink nipples to the soft nest of auburn curls between her thighs.

  “What are you doing in here?” she exclaimed. “Get out at once!”

  For his part the duke seemed just as startled as she was and his eyes immediately fixed on a point somewhere above her left shoulder. “I – I was, um…That is to say I was, er…you’re naked.”

  It was the first time she’d ever heard him stutter. Awkwardly draping one arm across her chest and flattening the other over her stomach, she crossed her legs and glared. “Thank you for pointing out the obvious! Now would you please leave?”

  “Yes…ah…all right.�
�� But no sooner had he walked out of the room than he turned around and walked right back in. “Why weren’t you at dinner?”

  “I – what?” This time it was Eleanor who found herself at a loss for words.

  “Dinner,” he repeated. “You weren’t there.” His gaze dropped to her face then down to her breasts where it lingered for the span of a heartbeat before quickly returning to her pink countenance. A muscle ticked high in his right cheek. “I thought I made it very clear in the foyer that I wished for you to join me for dinner.”

  “I wasn’t hungry.”

  “Regardless of whether you were hungry or not, when I give you a command I expect it to be followed,” he said imperiously.

  “A command?” Her eyebrows shot up. “You do not command me. I am your wife, not a dog.”

  Derek started to say something, but seemed to change his mind at the least second. Instead he lowered his head and, pinching the bridge of his nose, drew a deep breath. When he looked up again his expression was calm, but Eleanor still detected a hint of glittering temper in the depths of his gaze. “From now on, I should very much like if we dined together.”

  “Why?” she asked suspiciously. First he’d shown up out of the clear blue after nearly a year gone by without so much as a letter to inquire as to how she was faring, and now he wanted to dine with her? Her husband was clearly up to something.

  “Why?” he repeated. “Because, as you yourself just said, you are my wife. I would like the opportunity to get to know you better.” A smile lifted one side of his mouth. It was a very handsome smile. A very charming smile. The sort of smile a man might give to the woman he was courting in the hopes of winning her favor.