The Reluctant Duchess

by Jane Goodger

  In truth, Rebecca had not taken her lessons all that seriously so far, but with the ball looming and a deadline set, she found herself inspired to improve.

  “My tongue is tired.”

  Oliver chuckled. “I really do not believe all this diction practice is necessary. What will people do, run in terror from you when one of your vowels is too broad? I can tell you now, that they will be so distracted by my appearance, you will hardly register.”

  She frowned adorably. “I am not certain whether you just insulted me or yourself. Probably both.”

  The two were on their way to pick up his spectacles. Already, they had stopped by the tailor to have a final fitting of his formal wear; the clothes were to be delivered by the evening. Rebecca was expecting a ball gown and other garments to be delivered as well, a highly anticipated event. Though he knew little about women’s fashion and could hardly see well enough to tell whether someone was fashionable or not, he knew enough to recognize that Rebecca’s existing dresses were serviceable rather than stylish. The day prior, dozens of boxes had arrived from the milliner and Rebecca had happily spent two hours trying on all of the hats, the more outrageous, the larger her smile. Each required a different hair style, Darlene insisted, though that would wait until Rebecca wore the hats in public.

  His wife was a bundle of nerves and he only knew one way to calm her, so he pushed himself off his seat and squeezed his larger frame next to her, making her giggle.

  “What are you doing, Your Grace?” she asked with mock outrage.

  “I am ravaging my wife,” he said.

  “Are you? I hadn’t notic—” She sighed into his mouth, the loveliest sound he’d ever heard, and her hands immediately went to his neck to hold him close. It was like that between them. They could hardly keep their hands off one another. With one glance, she could have him hard and looking for the closest place where he could enter her sweet body.

  Last evening, he and she, along with Mr. Winters and Mrs. Habershaw, had dined at the famous Café Royal. Rebecca sat across from him, which seemed entirely too far away. During the second course, when a tray full of grapes was served, Rebecca put one into her mouth. Slowly. He could tell she was unaware of how erotic that motion was—at first. When she saw his gaze, she withdrew the grape and, with excruciating slowness, sucked it back into her mouth. Never had Oliver been so grateful for a table cloth. The room might have exploded around him and he would not have been able to tear his eyes away.

  “Your Grace,” he said, his voice sounding oddly strained to his own ears.

  “Yes, Your Grace?” the little imp replied innocently.

  He smiled, his body tense and aching, his groin heavy with need. “If you persist, our departure from this restaurant will be delayed.” He raised one eyebrow.

  “Perhaps we should ask for the check?” she suggested, smiling.

  Mr. Winters and Mrs. Habershaw looked between the two as if they were speaking a foreign language.

  “Are you feeling unwell?” Mr. Winters asked.

  “I’m uncertain if I can stand. Perhaps something we ate,” he said, but he could hardly get the words out, he was laughing so hard, which only served to confuse the older pair even more. He took a long drink of wine. “Yes, we should ask for the check. I jest. I am perfectly well.”

  Until they were ready to leave, he kept his eyes off his wife and his thoughts as far away from her lovely mouth as possible, lest he be forced to remain seated and unexposed. If he stood, it would have been impossible to hide his desire.

  The moment they’d reached their rooms, they were on one another, like two starving people, undressing each other with frantic haste. Oliver wondered if this was unusual, if this passion between them was something odd, a cause for concern. She only had to look at him a certain way, and he was ready to throw up her skirts and enter her. Could that be at all normal? Of course, he had no one to ask, no older brother, no chums, and he could hardly ask Mr. Winters. As far as Oliver knew, the man had never been with a woman and certainly had never shown a bit of interest.

  Oliver simply could not get enough of Rebecca, and not just her body—though that was exceptionally lovely. Her voice, her laugh, her scent all combined into a strange recipe that filled him with constant arousal. If they were not careful, and they were not always so, others would notice how consumed they were with each other. Rare was the aristocratic marriage that was founded in love. Mrs. Habershaw was correct in her estimation that they would appear unseemly if they were not better at concealing their thoughts. Still, it was great fun to give Rebecca one look and see her cheeks flush and know without a doubt that she was as aroused as he.

  “I do believe we are abnormal,” Oliver said after they’d finished one particularly vigorous round of lovemaking. She lay atop him, her silky hair tumbling down one side, the softest of smiles on her lips. She was close enough so he could see every detail of her face; the freckles that covered the bridge of her nose, her smooth skin, her full pink lips. My God, he was besotted. “Kiss please,” he said.

  Rebecca had lifted her head and pressed her mouth against his as she let out a low sound. That sound alone could make his cock stand at attention, and even though they’d just finished, it stirred a bit, making Rebecca laugh.

  “Insatiable,” she’d said, clearly delighted.

  Now, sitting next to her in the carriage, he found himself growing uncomfortably aroused just thinking about the previous evening. He was insatiable. It could not be normal.

  “When we return…”

  She smiled. “Yes?”

  Her eyelids lowered and she leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “Your Grace, we must depart this carriage quite soon. You’d best get your thoughts in order.”

  “How can I with you sitting here, all warm and lovely and smelling like a summer day.”

  “Waxing poetic now?”

  He laughed. “Always. I feel bewitched.”

  The carriage came to a halt and he couldn’t stop the sharp feeling of anticipation at the prospect of donning his glasses. He prayed he was not disappointed; he’d told himself a dozen times at least the improvement would be minimal at best. Still, he couldn’t help but hope the spectacles would help to make him feel a bit more confident on their outings. It was demeaning to be forced to clutch Rebecca whenever they went anywhere that was not familiar.

  This time when they entered the jeweler’s shop, a customer stood at the counter, a woman, judging by the dim outline he could see.

  “Ah, Your Grace,” said Mr. Morrison with a beaming smile. “One moment please.”

  Upon hearing the title, the woman at the counter turned, and Oliver was close enough to see her eyes widen. He felt the familiar blush burning his cheeks as he registered her shock.

  “Your Grace,” the woman said, as if delighted to see him. “I am Lady Forrester. My husband was Lord Forrester, God rest his soul. I had heard you are in town. I remember your father with great fondness. He and my husband were classmates at Oxford.”

  “Were they? It is a pleasure to meet someone who knew my father. He was a great man,” Oliver said, feeling a rush of warmth toward this woman. Perhaps her reaction was not due to his appearance but her happiness to be meeting him.

  “Indeed he was. And this is?”

  “My apologies, my lady. Please let me introduce my wife, Rebecca Sterling, Duchess of Kendal.”

  Beside him, he felt Rebecca stiffen, and he knew she was likely beyond nervous to greet this woman. It would be the thing to do, but he knew she was quite self-conscious about her Cornish accent.

  “It is a pleasure, Lady Forrester,” Rebecca said with excruciating care, and Oliver’s heart wrenched at bit to hear her. He squeezed her arm to silently tell her bravo; only the most learned linguistic expert would have detected an accent.

  Lady Forrester was a tall, slim woman with pale, intelligent eyes and b
rilliantly white hair carefully coiffed beneath a black hat that had some sort of feather decorating it. Oliver felt her assessment, uncertain whether she was looking at him with fondness or curiosity.

  “You must forgive me, Your Grace. I realize this is short notice, but I am holding a small dinner party this evening. No more than ten guests. It would be wonderful if you could join us. At eight?”

  “Dinner…” he repeated stupidly.

  “Yes. If you have other plans…”

  “No, Lady Forrester. I would be honored to attend,” he said with far more confidence than he felt. A normal man would have either come up with an excuse quickly or graciously accepted, and Oliver was determined not to embarrass himself or Rebecca. Forcing himself to do things that frightened him to tears was the only way he would be able to become part of society. He was a duke, one whose name had been disparaged for years. Perhaps it was not too late to make amends, to become the man he knew his father had meant him to be.

  While they’d been chatting, Mr. Morrison had gone to retrieve his glasses and had laid them on the counter with a flourish. “Your Grace.”

  Oliver stared at the spectacles for a moment before reaching out and placing them on his face.

  “Oh, they’re lovely,” Rebecca said, forgetting her diction in her excitement. Oliver clearly heard her accent and he hoped that if Lady Forrester had taken notice, it would not matter.

  The first thing he looked at was Rebecca’s face, her eyes lit, her smile bright and hopeful. “Well?”

  He felt tears pricking his eyes and had to swallow hard. Mr. Morrison came around the counter and began fiddling with the spectacles a bit. “Your Grace, go to the window and look out,” he said, after putting the clever darker lenses over the clear ones. Oliver walked to the window, amazed that he could make his way on his own. Everything was not entirely clear, but his sight was so much better with the spectacles on, it was unmanning. He stood there, looking outside, watching pedestrians and carriages go past, seeing details he had never seen before in his life. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, pushing a finger up between the lens and his cheeks so that he could brush away a ridiculous tear.

  “It’s miraculous,” he said. The dark-tinted lens made it far more comfortable to look outside at the bright, sunlit street. These spectacles, he realized, were going to alter his life in ways he could not now imagine.

  “I think you look dashing,” Rebecca said, and he turned to look at her, stunned by how clear her lovely face was to him. He could see her light freckles, curling eyelashes, brilliant blue eyes. Yes, he’d seen those features before, but he’d been so close, he hadn’t been able to her face clearly as a whole. There she was, his beautiful duchess, far lovelier than he’d known.

  “Mr. Morrison, thank you.”

  “It was my pleasure, Your Grace. I always wondered how you got on, and now I see that it has been a struggle for you.”

  Lady Forrester stepped toward the spot where Oliver stood with Rebecca, her gaze curiously sweeping over his wife before returning to him. “I shall see you this evening, then, Your Grace?” She handed him a card with her address.

  “Indeed, yes,” Oliver said, unable to stop the smile from forming on his face.

  “Wonderful. Mr. Morrison, I shall return to pick up the brooch on Friday?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  After Lady Forrester departed, Oliver could not stop his joy from spilling over. He picked Rebecca up and spun her about, glad that she laughed and hung on tightly. Behind him, Mr. Morrison chuckled as well.

  “I apologize for my unseemly behavior,” Oliver said, “but I do not believe I have ever been this happy in my life.” He grinned foolishly. “I can see you, Mr. Morrison. I can tell you are smiling. Your tie is green and…” He looked about. “That sign above your shelf.” He squinted his eyes, for he could barely make out the lettering. “All sales final.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Mr. Morrison said, beaming.

  “You can read that?” Rebecca said, grabbing his arm. “Oh, Oliver, that is wonderful.”

  “I have a feeling my new life, the life I have been meant to live, begins tonight.”

  Chapter 10

  Rebecca did her best to hide her terror at the thought of dining with such lofty people. Mrs. Habershaw was nearly as horrified by the news as she was.

  “She’s not ready,” she said when Oliver announced the pair would be dining out. “She can hardly speak a sentence without reverting to her former speech. This is disastrous.”

  Oliver just smiled, for it seemed nothing this day could dampen his mood. “Her Grace is perfectly capable of attending a dinner,” he said, giving Rebecca a quick kiss on her cheek, which only made Mrs. Habershaw moan.

  “You cannot kiss your wife in front of others this evening.” She turned to Mr. Winters, who looked on with amusement. Evil amusement, Rebecca thought darkly. She had no doubt that Mr. Winters was hoping she would fail.

  “And I should not do this, either?” Oliver swept her up into his arms and kissed her until she nearly forgot where she was. The devil.

  Rebecca gave Mrs. Habershaw a quick apologetic look; the poor woman seemed on the verge of fainting.

  “Mr. Winters,” the older woman said, obviously attempting to appeal to the man.

  “His Grace is teasing you, Mrs. Habershaw. He is quite aware of etiquette and well versed in social norms. He, at least, is more than ready to dine with such notables.”

  Rebecca did her best not to scowl at the implied insult. Though she had wracked her brain trying to remember what title Lady Forrester held, her panicking mind could not recall her rank. As a duchess, Rebecca realized that, other than the queen herself, she outranked nearly everyone who might be at the dinner party. And that was why she felt like such a fraud. She wondered if she would ever feel like a duchess; perhaps in her dotage she might be able to fool people.

  “Rebecca’s diction is much improved,” Oliver said loyally, and Rebecca gave him a grateful smile that was only slightly tinged with the nervousness she felt. Embarrassing Oliver was the very last thing she wished to do. She only hoped that whomever she was seated next to found the person opposite enthralling. Perhaps if she limited her answers to yes and no or, better yet, she could simply nod? Rebecca swallowed down the lump of fear that was growing in her throat. This evening could be disastrous.

  “At least she looks the part,” Mrs. Habershaw said in a most begrudging manner.

  Indeed, Darlene had outdone herself with Rebecca’s hair, upon which sat a lovely little tiara that Darlene and Mrs. Habershaw insisted was entirely appropriate for dining with the dowager countess. Yes, Lady Forrester was a countess, as Mrs. Habershaw informed her, which meant the rest of the guests would likely be of the same ilk. To think Rebecca had been nervous to attend St. Ives’ little John Knill ball, which compared to anything held in London was merely a provincial, country dance. What on earth had Oliver been thinking to marry her sight unseen?

  Still, she adored him. Loved him. She would do what she could to make him proud. Perhaps she could claim laryngitis.

  “Her Grace shall be the loveliest lady there tonight,” Oliver said, his eyes behind his spectacles darkening with appreciation. Though Rebecca had not known Oliver long, this was the happiest she had ever seen him. This evening, this entire visit to London, meant far more to him than she’d realized. Living in isolation, fearing to be seen, shunning society—it had all worn at him. Now, though, he was becoming more confident, more like a duke.

  That thought made Rebecca frown slightly, an expression that previously would have gone unnoticed by Oliver. Now, though, he saw it and moved to her side. “What is wrong?”

  “You’re becoming entirely too duk-ish, Oliver, and I’m not certain I like it.”

  “I am a duke, after all.”

  “Yes. But before we came to London, it wasn’t quite so apparent.”<
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  Oliver just laughed, then took up her hand and pressed it to his lips, ignoring Mrs. Habershaw’s throat-clearing. “I shall endeavor to not be too duk-ish tonight,” he said gallantly, which made Rebecca laugh.

  “You should be going. Traffic this time of night can be difficult,” Mrs. Habershaw said. “And remember the topics I mentioned that are allowed. Nothing political or controversial. Nothing about animals or illness or—”

  “Yes, I remember, Mrs. Habershaw. I shall endeavor to talk only of the weather.”

  Rebecca took a bracing breath and laid her hand on the crook of Oliver’s arm, realizing he hardly needed her guidance anymore. It was still difficult for him to sense the depth of steps, but he walked with far more confidence toward their door.

  “These spectacles…” he said, shaking his head. “I still cannot believe it. And I have you to thank, my love.”

  The ride to the Earl of Hampton’s London residence was far too short for Rebecca’s liking. She secretly prayed for a wheel to come loose or for the driver to lose his way and drive to Horncliffe instead. But, no, they arrived on time, with only a short queue of carriages to wait for before they could disembark. Oliver had no difficulty departing the carriage, for he had spent some time practicing doing so earlier that afternoon, something that made Rebecca realize how very important it was that he not appear in any way handicapped by his condition.

  “Your Grace,” he said, grinning and offering his arm.

  “Your Grace,” she said, smiling up at him impishly.

  “Do not look so charming, else I will have to drag you back into that carriage and—” He stopped, realizing the footman was close enough to overhear. Rebecca realized that the servant had not reacted to Oliver’s appearance, and she wondered if everyone had been forewarned. Though she was used to his pale skin and shockingly white hair, she did understand why seeing Oliver for the first time might be a bit jarring. As distracted as she was by her own trepidation, she couldn’t help but feel grateful for Lady Forrester’s thoughtfulness. Whatever had happened to Oliver when he was a youth to make him so reticent about going into public would not be revisited this evening, she thought.