by Eloisa James
Trent watched silently, feeling a throb in his groin. He wanted to pull her onto his lap, take out every single pin, and watch her ink-dark hair fall around her shoulders. Hell, he’d like to start unbuttoning that gown, baring creamy flesh that no man other than himself would ever see.
She seemed to be in lace from head to foot. Could she be wearing only lace under her gown? He’d never seen a lace chemise, but he could imagine it playing hide and seek with rosy nipples.
He’d like—
“Duke,” she said.
Their eyes met.
“Should I say, husband?”
“Is that a genuine question?”
“Was that ceremony a farce? How can it possibly have been a lawful wedding?”
“It was a legitimate ceremony. You are now the Duchess of Trent by special license.” He hesitated. “I realize that your veil obscured your vision, but the bishop did say Octavius Mortimer John Allardyce, rather than Cedric Mortimer Allardyce.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Your names are quite similar.”
“Every male in my family is named after Mortimer, the first duke.”
“I had no idea that you were standing in for your brother,” she said, confirming his impression. “Does this mean you have won the competition, or has Cedric won, and I’m the consolation prize?”
Competition?
“There was no competition,” Trent said, adding honestly, “but I will admit that by marrying you I consider myself a victor.”
A moment of silence followed, in which Merry bundled her veil into a reasonably neat pile on the seat. “Cedric told me all about the conversation you had with him on the steps of your house,” she said finally.
Trent frowned.
“In which you discussed the fact that Cedric had not bedded me,” she clarified. “I believe that is the term he used. I might add that I find it reprehensible that the two of you would talk about me, or any other woman, in such a manner.”
He must have a streak of perversion, because the fact that his new duchess was scowling at him just made Trent desire her even more. “I entirely agree with you.”
“I suppose Cedric brought it up,” she said, jumping to the right conclusion when he didn’t say anything else.
“Did he tell you that we were competing for your hand?” Trent asked, wondering exactly what his brother—who had a positive genius for delivering half truths—had told her. “As I recollect, Cedric announced that he had refrained from kissing you in order to keep your interest.”
She flinched, and looked down at her lap. “I can’t believe I thought I was in love with a man who is so coarse and cold-blooded. I am such a fool.”
Trent didn’t like the humiliated ache in Merry’s voice; his words came out more fiercely than they might have. “It was the opposite of a competition. I was trying to convince myself that I had no right to woo my brother’s fiancée.”
Her head swung up.
“It wasn’t working,” he said, watching her closely. “The only thing I remember of the conversation was gratitude that he hadn’t touched you.”
“Cedric told me that you only kissed me at the ball in order to score a point against him.”
He felt a prickle of irritation. “Do you really think that I give a damn about scoring points? I have never kissed a woman for any reason other than the obvious.” He gave her a hard stare that had so much lust in it that his American, innocent as she was, had to know exactly what he felt.
Sure enough, her cheeks turned a little pink. But her expression didn’t soften. “I would have thought that you would never discuss bedding a lady. But I was wrong.”
Trent’s jaw tightened. He felt as if he’d spent his life wading through muck that his brother had spread at their feet.
“So yes,” Merry said fiercely, “I found it entirely possible that you and your brother would engage in a form of sibling rivalry involving a scoring system of one type or another.”
“You are incorrect.” Despite himself, his voice turned a bit chilly. Merry had come to a fair assumption, given that she didn’t know him well. But it rankled. “Cedric was deliberately untruthful. An honorable man considers his brother’s intended out of reach, and that’s not taking into account the fact that you told me you were in love.”
“You wanted—you thought about wooing me?”
He nodded.
“Why?” she asked, her American bluntness coming into play. “You have no need for my inheritance. Cedric thought that my nationality and lack of gentility would tarnish his title; just imagine what it will do to yours. Or did your brother force you to the altar?”
Damn it, most young ladies would love to marry him. Apparently he’d ended up with the one woman who would prefer disgrace to being a duchess.
“If the wedding had been called off, especially after Cedric’s behavior at the Vereker ball, the natural assumption would be that you had jilted him, just as you did Bertie. Your reputation would never recover.”
“So you sacrificed yourself for my good?” In a heartbeat, she’d gone from angry to utterly furious. She pulled off the wedding ring he had slid over her gloved finger in the cathedral. “Hold this a moment, please.” She dropped the ring into his hand and began removing her gloves—with the help of her teeth.
“What?” she said, catching his eyes. “Have you any idea how much lace gloves itch?”
“I’ve never seen lace gloves before.”
“You’ll never see me wearing them again.” She tossed the gloves on the seat beside her veil. She had every right to be so angry. Hell, if someone lured him to the altar under false pretenses, he’d be livid.
“In the midst of your concern for my reputation, why didn’t you just tell me?” she demanded. “Forgive me, but what sort of man thinks it’s acceptable to marry a woman without asking her beforehand?”
He’d known this moment would come. He just hadn’t pictured the pain in her eyes. Damn it, he should have followed his instincts, not listened to her aunt.
“I asked to speak to you yesterday. But Mrs. Pelford felt—”
“Aunt Bess knew all this?” Her voice rose. “I realized my uncle had to have known, but my aunt as well?”
“Mrs. Pelford felt strongly that you would not marry me if I approached you yesterday,” Trent said flatly. “She was convinced that the wedding had to be presented as a fait accompli, or you would return to Boston. She refused to allow me to speak to you.”
Her mouth tightened. “That sounds just irrational enough to be possible.”
“She takes your reputation very seriously.”
“In Boston, a person’s word is his bond.” Merry pulled a fold of her veil into her lap and began pleating it. “My aunt is quite pained by my lack of constancy. My family . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“My family—Cedric—also played a part.”
“So why did Cedric amuse himself by writing me all those letters at the same time that you were presumably acquiring a wedding license with your name on it?”
“He felt that your quarrel at the Vereker ball destroyed his chance of a respectable marriage.”
“That is the reasoning he used to force me to the altar,” she said, eyes kindling.
“He argued that there were only two ways to preserve both your and his reputations. Either the two of you would marry—which I would not allow—or you and I would marry in a cause célèbre, and Cedric would become famous for having sacrificed himself on the altar of my true love.”
“You wouldn’t allow the marriage,” she said slowly.
“Of course not.”
“Why didn’t you simply send me a message saying, ‘So sorry, my brother has done a bunk, and you won’t be Lady Cedric after all. And by the way, I’ll stand in as groom, if you wish’?”
Trent curled his fingers around Merry’s wedding ring, surprised by how fierce his impulse was to replace it on her finger.
“Mrs. Pelford said you would return to Boston. I didn’t want t
o chase you across the ocean. I wanted to marry you.” His voice came out low, rough. “I wanted to marry you from the moment I met you, but I fought it because you belonged to my brother. And when the chance came to marry you, even in an underhanded way, I seized it.”
Her mouth fell open, clearly in astonishment. “From the moment you met me on the balcony?”
Hadn’t she noticed that he had nearly kissed her?
“Had you any idea who I was?” she asked.
“None, nor did I know that you were betrothed to my brother. You were a complete stranger. But I made up my mind to marry you.”
“That is so odd,” she muttered, rubbing her forehead. “I thought this sort of thing only happened in books.”
He felt a flash of alarm. “Perhaps I should clarify that I’m not talking about love at first sight,” he said, a touch of apology in his voice.
“I think we both agree that there’s been enough talk of ‘love’ in my life,” she said wryly. “I did not fall in love with you at first sight, either.”
“I decided to marry you for far more rational reasons. You are very beautiful, and even better, intelligent and funny.” He hesitated and then added, “I also find it appealing that your experiences have taught you the true nature of romantic love: to wit, that it is a shallow emotion.”
A reluctant smile curled the edges of her mouth. “I do not believe that love is shallow. But I do agree that it is unreliable.” Merry shook her head. “I would never trust myself to choose another fiancé, for example.”
“I am deeply hopeful that there will be no need to put yourself to the test,” he said.
“Why are you so afraid of love?” she asked.
“I’m not afraid. But I consider love temporary by definition. Our marriage will proceed on the basis of our affinity for each other, our compatibility. Hopefully we will form a lifelong bond based on mutual respect, not a feckless emotion that evaporates like a puddle in summer.”
“That is a persuasive argument,” she said slowly.
In the back of his mind, Trent couldn’t believe that he was having to argue with a woman about the merits of being a duchess. He’d known from the time he was twelve years old that he was one of the most desirable men in England.
But that was the point, wasn’t it? He had decided to marry an American woman because she overlooked his title for his own merits. He just never thought that his merits might not be enough.
Trent leaned forward, but he didn’t touch her. If he picked up Merry’s hand, he might burst into flames, pull her into his lap, and ravish that plump mouth of hers. “I will give you an annulment if you wish. But I would prefer that you remain my duchess.”
He cleared his throat. “You told me in the library that you consider us friends. I believe we could have a very good marriage. I find you far more captivating than any other woman I’ve met.”
“I am honored,” she said, a trifle awkwardly.
Despite himself, he took her left hand, turned it over, and kissed her palm. “We both understand that romantic love is bollocks. We will have a solid marriage, a rational, respectful, happy marriage.”
He watched as she thought about it. “I have two questions,” she said. “First, would you allow me to venture to the East End of London, if I wished?”
“Certainly, not that I would wish you to go anywhere dangerous without me. Why—”
She raised a pink fingertip. “Second. Will you accompany me to the Chelsea Physic Garden to see the pineapple stove?”
What the hell was that? “I should warn you that my cook is a bit elderly. I put a Rumford stove and a hob grate into the kitchens in Hawksmede, my country seat, and she refused to make supper for a solid week.”
“This particular stove is not for food,” Merry said, her dimple appearing. Damn, but he liked that dimple.
“What is it for?”
“Growing pineapple plants.”
He judged it a quixotic endeavor, given England’s climate, but he didn’t care. “My house has nineteen acres of woods and gardens. You could have a pineapple stove on every one, if you wish.”
“Bribery,” she muttered. But Trent knew her well enough to recognize the light in her eyes.
He kissed her palm again. “May I return your wedding ring, Merry?”
The question hung in the air.
“Yes,” she whispered. “You may.”
He slipped the ring over her ring finger. “Will you remain my duchess? For better, for worse, and all the rest of it?”
The question hung in the air of the carriage, silence broken only by the clatter of carriage wheels on cobblestones.
Then she nodded. “I shall keep my vows, Duke. I will be your friend and you will be mine. You will take me to see the pineapple stove, and I. . . .” She gave him an impish smile. “I will not fall in love with you.”
The carriage rocked to a halt; they had reached Trent’s townhouse and Merry added, “I have to admit that it’s amusing to realize that you believe you’re so irresistible that you have to warn women not to become besotted with your beauty.”
The doorway swung open and a footman appeared. His wife descended in a cloud of lace.
And a giggle.
Chapter Twenty-two
Merry walked into the entry of the duke’s townhouse and stopped short. Not the duke’s house: her house. She was the duchess.
These were her footmen, gawking at her under their lashes. Her townhouse, her front door.
Her husband.
The word sent a thrill through her that was very different from the dread with which she’d pictured being Cedric’s wife.
Trent came up behind her, putting a warm hand on her lower back. “Your maid is waiting for you in your bedchamber, if you would like to change your gown.”
Merry was tired of dragging around mounds of lace, but she couldn’t simply walk into a strange bedchamber and explain to Lucy . . . what? She felt as if her life had splintered into a million pieces and she was desperate to glue parts of it, at least, back together.
She knew what English people always did in moments of indecision. She smiled at Trent’s butler—her butler. “Thank you, but I should like a cup of tea first.”
Two seconds later, she was seated on a couch in a small sitting room, her train wadded up at her feet and her husband seated at her side.
The very sight of him struck her like a blow. Trent wasn’t pretty. He had the look of an angel cast out for the sin of arrogance, but at the same time, he was all man, from head to toe.
She cleared her throat. “What am I to call you?”
He looked confused for a moment. Then he said, “My mother addressed my father by his title.”
“I address you as Duke?”
“Actually, she addressed him as Trent, as in, the Duke of Trent. I would prefer it, but you are welcome to use one of my personal names, if you like.”
“Trent sounds like a river,” she observed. “And I am not fond of Mortimer.”
The side of the duke’s mouth drew up in a crooked smile, and he moved close enough to drop a kiss on her neck.
Merry shivered involuntarily.
He kissed her again, on the chin this time. “My first name is Octavius.” His arms came around her and pulled her close. “I am the sixth duke, but the eighth Mortimer.”
“I couldn’t be married to an emperor,” Merry said, trying to keep her voice even although her heartbeat had quickened. “I’m an American, and we do not kowtow to royalty.”
A wicked smile lit deep in his eyes. “I wouldn’t want you to kowtow. But would you submit, Merry?” His voice deepened. “Would you submit to your very own emperor?”
A shiver broke over Merry’s skin. How did he make that word sound so alluring? “No,” she breathed, because no matter how delectable her husband was, she would not submit to anyone.
He broke into a crack of laughter. “This marriage is going to be interesting.”
Merry discovered her fingers were cu
rling into his hair and she was fighting the impulse to melt against him. She was fairly certain that ladies didn’t do that sort of thing—at least not in sitting rooms. “I am having trouble believing that you decided to marry me the first time we met,” she said. “I could hardly see you in the twilight.”
“You spoke to me as if you were already a duchess.”
“You liked the way I spoke?”
“Yes. And your facts, and your laugh. Your gown may have also played a role.”
She frowned, trying to remember what she had worn the night they met.
“It was dusky on the balcony, but your skin glowed in the poor light there was.” One finger trailed down the line of her neck, then lower over the swell of her breast. “Especially here. You were spilling out of the dress. There wasn’t a man in the ballroom who didn’t want you.”
“They wanted my fortune,” she corrected him. “My bosom may have been a welcome second.” The duke’s hands were callused, presumably from riding, and his caress felt so good that she shivered.
“I don’t need your fortune. And I have to admit that it gave me some pleasure to know that you had no ambitions to become a duchess.”
“I did not,” she said. She wasn’t being completely honest. There had been moments when she’d dreamed of marrying him—and becoming his duchess was the unavoidable side effect of that—but a woman has to keep her dignity. Her husband already had far too much self-confidence for his own good.
“Your fortune and your bosom are welcome seconds to you, to Miss Merry Pelford, an American from Boston.”
His answer sent a streak of happiness through her. An aching hunger had sprung into being between them, a kind of madness that made her legs quiver so that she could easily imagine sliding onto her back, his weight and raw hunger following her down . . .
He pulled her tightly into his arms, crushing her breasts against his chest. Then he bent his head and kissed her for the first time since they stood before the altar. Even the touch of their lips together made tingles go down her legs.
Trent was a bossy kisser, moving her head into just the right position. But did it matter, when his lips were so firm and sweet, and he was so good at it? He wasn’t pushy and wet, either. It was like a conversation, alternately devouring, then gentle and sweet.