When a Duchess Says I Do

by Grace Burrowes

  “You aren’t gloating, so the news can’t be that awful.”

  “Quinn and Jane are paying you a call, and they’re bringing the children.”

  Dear…God. “Meddling. Meddling when I can least afford their interference.”

  Stephen considered his teacup, the steam wafting up in a shaft of sunshine. “I’ll do what I can, Duncan, but what will you tell them about our Matilda?”

  * * *

  “I learned after yesterday’s interview with Trostle that I’m to host a visit from more family,” Duncan said, settling a pair of spectacles on his nose. “This was inevitable, though no arrival date has been disclosed. The children will slow down the raiding party, but not stop its progress.” He occupied the desk near the window, where the light was best for reading.

  The current work in progress was his essay on the Vatican, which had fascinated Matilda, given his training in theology. She still had a pair of Duncan’s eyeglasses—they helped a great deal when deciphering his handwriting—so he must be wearing a spare pair.

  “You make a visit from family sound like Old Testament retribution.” For Matilda, the news was sad, but hardly a surprise. She had promised Duncan only that her tenure at Brightwell would be temporary.

  “Quinn and Jane are bringing the children, so I mustn’t complain too loudly. Three females, the oldest of them about five years of age. One delights in seeing the great Quinn Wentworth on his hands and knees, trying to whinny like a pony but sounding like a bear in distress.”

  Matilda rose from her chair by the hearth and took the glasses from Duncan’s nose. “You envy him that privilege.”

  Duncan appeared to thrive in solitude. His life was lived mostly through his intellect, and yet, he’d known Jinks was hungry. He’d pulled Lord Stephen back from the brink of adolescent despair any number of times. Among his correspondence had been a note to the Lady Elizabeth Wentworth on Birdsong Lane in London. If she was a ducal cousin, she was a child of tender years, and Duncan was doubtless her most devoted correspondent.

  He was here, attempting a task he disliked, simply because another cousin—younger, with few trustworthy allies—had asked it of him.

  Duncan Wentworth would make a ferociously loving father.

  “This essay waxes too philosophical,” he said, laying the pages on the blotter. “You must be ruthless with my prose, Matilda. Excise the churchly maunderings, leave the architectural descriptions.”

  “Never. You are the first writer I’ve come across who can connect the two—the theology and the builder’s reality—and more than any other treatise, this one convinces me your work deserves publication.”

  He was pleased with her defense of his prose. She knew this by his scowl, by the impatient drumming of his fingers on the blotter. Already, she was learning to decode his mannerisms, learning to see what others would express with a smile.

  She would be forced to leave him. His family was preparing to storm the premises—ducal family, no less. Matilda knew, with the same sinking sensation she’d felt when she’d realized what Papa had so carelessly left in his satchel, she would have to leave Brightwell and its owner.

  An itinerant peddler had warned her that fugitives must always cut a fresh trail. Never double back, never return to a particular town or inn. Matilda removed her own spectacles and laid them beside Duncan’s, then draped her shawl—one today—around his shoulders and settled herself in his lap.

  “You must promise me something, Duncan.”

  His arms came around her slowly, securely. “There’s little I could refuse you.”

  “You will publish these treatises. They are not the casual scribblings of a privileged younger son with no purpose in life. They are keen and respectful observations from a student of humanity. You look upon the world with a tolerant eye and a need to understand rather than judge.”

  His kindness, lurking beneath an enormous reserve and even greater intellect, had saved Matilda’s life. Soon it would break her heart.

  “You do me too much honor. I’d like to kiss you.”

  He would not so much as buss her cheek, not unless he was certain his kisses were welcome. Matilda loved that about him, loved the unbreakable self-restraint he wore like shining armor. He would no sooner raise his voice to a footman than he would castigate Stephen for the racket resulting from construction of a lift.

  And yet, for a snared rabbit, Duncan Wentworth, unarmed, had taken on a felon wielding a knife.

  Matilda closed her eyes. “I would adore for you to kiss me.”

  Duncan sailed past preliminary moves, cradled the back of Matilda’s head in his palm, and settled his mouth over hers.

  So warm. She sank her hands into his hair—how she loved to fuss and muss him—and kissed him back. A genteel brawl ensued, with tongues twining, bodies pressing close, and the occasional frustrated mutter when clothing became disobliging.

  “I want you to teach me to curse,” Matilda panted, her forehead pressed to Duncan’s shoulder. “I want you to teach me the words nobody teaches a lady in English.”

  She ended up straddling Duncan’s lap, his arousal pressing between her legs. Too many layers of skirts, breeches, shawls, and petticoats came between them, and yet, she could feel his desire.

  He drew the shawl up around her shoulders. “The usual expletives include damn, damnation, and hell, with the predictable variations. Bloody is considered inexcusably vulgar, and Stephen occasionally uses shite and bollocks to good advantage. If I can’t get my hands under your bloody, bedamned, infernal skirts in the next ten seconds I will lose my damned mind and my bollocks will explode.”

  “Oh, that is lovely, Duncan.”

  “Also the perishing truth. Lean up.”

  Matilda hoisted herself a few inches by bracing herself on his shoulder, and he sorted out her skirts.

  “I am courting you, you will recall,” Duncan said. “If this variety of courting is not to your liking, you will please alert me to that fact.”

  “I like this variety of courting so much I want to unfasten your falls.”

  She’d made love in a moving coach (a hilarious undertaking), on a pile of straw (itchy), and once on a blanket beneath a venerable oak that had scattered acorns in all the wrong locations. Here, surrounded by years of Duncan’s journals, the fire crackling, the house otherwise quiet, the setting finally seemed right even if the timing was all wrong.

  “The sofa,” Duncan said. “Let us at least afford ourselves the comfort of the sofa. Hold on to me.”

  As long as I can. Matilda wrapped her arms about his shoulders as Duncan rose with her and crossed the room, her legs scissored around his middle.

  He carried her as if hauling full-grown females about was no effort, and when he settled with her on the sofa, Matilda held on for a moment longer. Leaving him would kill her, though she’d do it. Treason tainted all who came within its ambit, and Matilda brought treason with her everywhere.

  “Your falls,” she said, easing her grip. “Let me undo…”

  He made no protest as she undid the buttons that held one side of his breeches closed. When she got her hands on him, his head fell back against the sofa, gaze hooded.

  Duncan was not the classic English lord, with blond hair, blue eyes, and a gracious, flirtatious manner. He was serious, intelligent to a fault, and no longer young. Guilt stirred beneath the desire waking up every part of Matilda’s body. He deserved a woman who’d stay by his side, love him for his many strengths, and never betray his trust.

  She could not be that woman, and she could not deny herself the intimacy he offered her now. He’d forgive her for abandoning him—he was that honorable—but she might never forgive herself.

  “I have not locked the door,” Duncan said. “Stephen will barge in here thinking to protect my virtue, and I will have to kill him.”

  Matilda stared at him, then stared down at his exposed member. “Lock the door?” What was he going on about? Holy cherubim…Perhaps Frenchmen as a race wer
e not particularly well endowed, or perhaps German dukes were only modestly—

  Duncan kissed her nose. “I’ll be back.”

  He set her aside on the sofa, crossed the room at an easy prowl, and flipped the lock. He shrugged out of his coat, tossed it onto the desk, and stood two yards away, his falls half undone, his hair tousled.

  His expression was that of chess master contemplating the sacrifice of a major piece—even a queen, perhaps—in aid of serious strategy.

  “You are sure, Matilda?”

  Don’t ask me that. “I know exactly what we’re offering each other, and I know that I want to share this with you.”

  He ran his hand through his hair, stared out the window for a moment, and then rejoined Matilda on the sofa.

  She had the sense that in those few instants, Duncan had weighed all the possibilities—from approaches to lovemaking, to her eventual departure, to the impending visit from the ducal relations—and he’d reached conclusions Matilda could only guess at.

  She was too muddled to plan moves or deduce strategy.

  “I’m out of practice,” Duncan said, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles. “Years out of practice when it comes to intimate pleasures, but the longer I look at you, the more I touch you, the more ideas flood my mind, all of them lovely. Will you come with me?”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Your taste is refined, my lady,” Wakefield said. “I will continue my search for the exact right piece to set upon your piano.”

  Lady Elspeth Cadwallader offered her hand. “Promise you will be tireless, Mr. Wakefield. My musicale is scheduled for the end of the month, and all must be perfect.”

  All had to be perfect, but at bargain prices and only after Wakefield had shown her half the French porcelain for sale in London and had sent to Paris for a few more pieces besides.

  At his own expense, of course. “Both of your daughters are performing?”

  “A duet,” her ladyship said, beaming as if no pair of siblings had ever done likewise. “Written especially for them by a very talented fellow from a ducal family.”

  God rot all ducal families and their country holdings. “I’ll look for a figure that represents harmony and dual forces, shall I? Psyche and Cupid?”

  Her ladyship paused in the doorway to her parlor. “I mustn’t be obvious, Mr. Wakefield. My daughters need husbands, but they need to be happy too. Cupid and Psyche had rather a difficult time on the way to lasting happiness, for all their union eventually prospered.”

  Her ladyship was so earnest in her regard for her children. Wakefield abruptly needed to be away from her and her maternal devotion.

  “Not Cupid and Psyche then,” he said. “Perhaps a shepherdess with her flocks.” Such figures abounded, each one more insipid than the last.

  Lady Elspeth was ever polite, and thus she accompanied Wakefield to her own front door.

  “You must miss your dear Matilda terribly. Does she at least write to you?”

  Her ladyship had clearly married young, if she had two daughters who were already out. Wakefield put her age at less than forty, and she was maturing gracefully. She had a way of making him feel as if nobody in all the world could locate the desperately needed painting, sculpture, or vase that would ensure her eternal happiness. She’d been widowed five years ago, and Wakefield hadn’t heard so much as a snippet of gossip about her.

  Standing in her foyer, parental commiseration beaming from her green eyes, Wakefield wanted to break something—the porcelain figure of Aphrodite on the sideboard, perhaps. He’d made not a farthing’s worth of profit on that sale.

  “Matilda is a conscientious correspondent, but a father worries.” More and more, the longer she was missing, and still Wakefield’s superiors urged him to leave matters alone. Weeks ago, he’d deduced that she was in London and trying to discreetly contact him. He’d deferred to the wishes of his superiors then, and regretted his decision ever since.

  “The ocean is so dratted wide,” Lady Elspeth said. “One of my worst fears is that my daughters will fall in love with Americans. I shall have to leave England if that happens, because what matters a Mayfair address if I can’t hug my girls?”

  She was tightening a noose of guilt with each well-meant word. “Your devotion to them does you credit, my lady. I will redouble my efforts to find you an exquisite piece for your musicale.”

  The butler had handed Wakefield’s greatcoat to Lady Elspeth and then retreated into the bowels of the house. The day was beastly cold, and a bitter wind made a journey of even a few streets uninviting.

  And Matilda is somewhere in the countryside, alone, without means.…Because the Crown and its various foreign counterparts must play their little games, in which Wakefield had always been a willing pawn, provided the compensation was generous.

  “This garment is lovely,” her ladyship said, holding up Wakefield’s greatcoat. “I don’t know as I’ve seen another like it.”

  “The workmanship is Russian. Matilda bought it for me when we spent a winter in St. Petersburg.” He hadn’t meant to say that, though it was the truth. “She has an eye for quality, in art, fashion, and the company she keeps.”

  “You’re proud of her.” Lady Elspeth smoothed her hand over Wakefield’s shoulder. “I can hear that in your voice. I do hope you’ll introduce us when she returns from her travels.”

  Not if she’s wanted for treason, you don’t. “The two of you would get along famously. She hasn’t your ear for music, but she’s passionate about chess and very well read.” Fat lot of good that would do her on an English winter night.

  “Tell her to come home. Broadening the mind is all well and good, and heaven knows once a woman marries, her time is not her own, but tell her to come home.”

  She passed Wakefield his scarf, a sumptuously soft purple cashmere Matilda had found in Edinburgh.

  “What are we supposed to do with the empty hours, Thomas?” Lady Elspeth brushed her fingers along the curled brim of Wakefield’s top hat. “Our spouses expire, and one can’t be angry about that, though one is, and then our children grow up. Again, one knows the natural order calls for such eventualities, but what is one to do about them? You will think me pathetic.”

  Wakefield had made good coin gathering such confidences from unlikely sources. His role as a gentleman merchant made conversational intimacies natural, and he’d been well paid for his skills. He’d forgotten that confidences could be gifts, unasked for, freely bestowed.

  Had he also forgotten how to be a father?

  “We take comfort from our friendships, my lady, and should that fail, I’m told spoiling grandchildren is a fine pastime.”

  He offered his signature benevolent smile, she beamed back at him, and then he was out in the frigid air, cursing the Crown, foreign governments, musicales, and wayward daughters in particular. Pray God, Matilda eluded Lord Atticus Parker’s clutches until Wakefield could find her, though better that Parker come upon her than some factor of a more ruthless bent.

  “Her ladyship didn’t like any of the angels,” Carlu said, falling in step with Wakefield at the foot of the drive. “I told you she wouldn’t.”

  Wakefield’s porter had carried the figures, wrapped in thick wool and boxed with chopped straw, the distance from Wakefield’s home to Lady Elspeth’s.

  “She likes me,” Wakefield said. “I suspect that’s the point of the exercise.”

  “My esteemed employer is only now realizing this? The English winter has curdled your brains, sir. My testicles, should I ever have occasion to see them again, are likely curdled, too, but the infernal cold has shriveled my manly abundance to—”

  “Carlu, how many toddies did you enjoy in Lady Elspeth’s kitchen?”

  “Two. I believe rum was involved in the recipe. You know how I am about rum.”

  Wakefield walked quickly, the better to battle the penetrating cold. A top hat was damned idiocy in weather like this, but an English gentleman did not go abroad bareheaded.

&
nbsp; “You’re to return for the figures tomorrow,” Wakefield said. “She wants a day to consider her decision.”

  “She wants you to come back tomorrow. Fortunately, the under-cook is friendly, and I flatter myself that—”

  “Carlu, for God’s sake, if you have something to say, say it.”

  Leather did not keep feet dry, but at least Wakefield had only a few streets to tramp in the slush and muck of London. Where was Matilda, and was she still wearing the single pair of half boots she’d taken with her months ago?

  “Parker is making his way to Brightwell. His progress is slow—he’s gone off on several goose chases—but within days, a fortnight at most, he’ll find the place.”

  “We have some time, then.” Not much, some. “Has Matilda been seen in the vicinity?”

  “She has not, that we know of. The current owner of Brightwell is some banker turned duke, an absentee landlord. He’s sent a cousin out to Berkshire to manage the place, though he’s also broken the entail. Could be he’s getting ready to sell. In any case, the house has only a small staff, and the cousin keeps mostly to himself.”

  “So we know where Parker is, but not where Matilda is.” No different from a week ago, or four months ago.

  “This is when you give me permission to travel to Berkshire, or you tell me we’re to travel there with Tomas and Petras. We pay a discreet midnight call on this cousin, search his house from attics to cellars with no one the wiser, and when Parker arrives, we make sure the ditches are very slippery and deep.”

  “We don’t even know if she’s at Brightwell.”

  Carlu came to a halt at a street crossing. “Because we haven’t been given the resources to establish that fact, but you’ve said she loved the old duke and she was never happier than when you spent a few weeks out there every summer. What sort of father leaves his daughter to face the likes of the colonel without reinforcements? And God forbid she’s found by somebody other than the colonel before we can get to her.”

  The cold had driven all but a few souls indoors, and thus Carlu’s insubordination hadn’t been overheard.