She still didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad, but she did know that if she sullied her appearance in any way Molly would personally have her head, which was why she’d done her best to sit completely still on the carriage ride from London to Surrey.
Such a strain on her muscles could have been avoided if she’d but waited for Warwick, but having already spent three years apart, she didn’t want to wait another three minutes if she could help it.
Artemis did not regret the decisions she’d made or the path that had carried her to this moment in time. How could she, when it had turned her into the woman she was always meant to become?
Strong.
Resilient.
Powerful.
But now she needed to learn how to be soft. For she finally understood that softness wasn’t weakness, and loving someone didn’t mean that you were destined to be disappointed by them.
For too long, she’d allowed her fear of turning back into what she’d been to govern her actions. It had certainly controlled how she’d perceived her betrothed. But unlike her parents, Warwick–at least, the Warwick she knew now as opposed to the Warwick she’d loathed then–had accepted her as she was without trying to make her into what he wanted her to be.
And that was more valuable than any piece of art or jewelry she’d ever stolen.
“Do I look foolish?” she asked Mr. Grieves. “I feel foolish.”
“You are positively stunning,” said a deep, masculine voice from the top of the staircase.
Artemis swallowed hard as she watched Warwick descend the steps. He was casually dressed in dark green breeches and a satin waistcoat sans jacket, with his sleeves rolled up and his cravat loosely draped around his neck, revealing a V of tanned flesh at the base of his throat. His hair was swept back, the thick mahogany locks sliding off the edge of his temple in a rumpled disarray that only served to heighten his roguish appeal.
“Stunning,” he repeated quietly as he reached the marble tile.
With a quick glance between them, Mr. Grieves quit the room, leaving Warwick and Artemis staring at each other in silence.
She was the first to break it.
“I…I cannot remember when I last wore a dress.” Grabbing a fistful of tulle in each hand, she gave it a desperate shake. “But I wanted to show you that I remember how. And to say that I don’t know if I’ll make a good duchess, but I’m willing to try.”
“You’ll make a terrible duchess,” he said flatly.
Her lips parted as her heart sank.
Well, then.
There was her answer.
“Oh,” she whispered. “I-I understand. I’ll see myself out, then.”
Don’t you dare cry, she told herself fiercely as she started to turn. But before she’d made it halfway to the door she felt a tug of resistance and looked down to see that Warwick had wrapped his arm around her waist.
“You will no doubt shoot our guests if they speak out of turn,” he murmured, his voice little more than a husky rumble in her ear as he drew her against the hard plane of his chest. “When we attend a ball you’ll be upstairs stealing all the silver while I’m stuck below socializing. And every time we have an argument I’ll find myself less a horse. Did you bring Mae back, by the by? Northwind has missed her enormously.”
“Has he?” she asked, twisting in his embrace so that they were face to face.
“Yes,” Warwick said gravely. “He’s wild about her, you know.”
Artemis’s mouth curved. “That’s good, because she’s just as crazy about him.”
“Are we still talking about horses?”
“No, I don’t believe we are.”
He gazed into her eyes. “Do you know what day it is?”
“Tuesday?” she ventured, her brow furrowing.
“The seventh. It’s the seventh day.” His thumb glided along her cheek as he tenderly tucked a curl behind her ear. “And you’re still here.”
“Strictly speaking, I left and came back, but you’re right. I’m here.” She grimaced. “I am going to make a terrible duchess, aren’t I?”
“The worst,” he agreed without hesitation. “But I love you, and the members of the ton will love you as well.”
“And if they don’t?”
Warwick shrugged. “You can stab them. Will you do it then? Will you be my duchess?”
“Yes,” she said, almost shyly. She tried to wrap her arms around his neck, but she tripped on the hem of her gown instead. Cursing loudly, she yanked up her skirts. “As long as I don’t have to wear these torture devices.”
“I’ve some extra trousers in my bedchamber. Best get you changed right away.”
Her head tilted. “In your bedchamber, did you say?”
“Indeed,” he said solemnly even as his gray eyes took on a wicked gleam.
With a laugh, Artemis stood up on her toes and brushed her lips across his. “Then what are we waiting for?”
It wasn’t a conventional proposal. But then, theirs was not to be a conventional marriage. And in the months and years that followed, Artemis did threaten a few pompous earls and one obnoxious debutante with a knife. But she never stabbed anyone.
At least, not that she told her husband about.
About the Author
Jillian grew up in Maine and now lives in South Eastern Pennsylvania on a five acre farm with her husband, their three young children (all boys – send help), miniature donkey, and draft mule. When she isn’t busy spinning happily-ever-after’s, Jillian enjoys gardening, spending time at the barn, and the tiny little moments of peace and quiet she gets when she puts the kids in their car seats and walks around to the driver’s side door.
www.jillianeaton.com
Read on for an excerpt from A Duke for the Holidays, a Regency Christmas novella you don’t want to miss! Available now on Amazon.
A Duke for the Holidays
Only one hour into Lady Bishop’s dinner party, and Merry was already soundly regretting her decision to attend.
First of all, Rebecca had lied about the apricot pudding.
Second of all, she did not know a single person sitting around the enormous dining room table.
Well that is not completely true, Merry amended as she shoveled a spoonful of veal broth into her mouth. There was one person she knew, aside from her mother and her sister.
The Duke of Kendalwood.
He sat at the head of the table like some sort of dark prince, his thick mane of ebony hair gleaming beneath the glittering chandelier that hung from the middle of the vaulted ceiling. He had a cleanly shaven jaw and long side whiskers that added a sinister appeal Merry found rather troubling, although she seemed to be the only one who did, as the duke was not suffering from lack of attention.
Particularly of the female variety.
To Merry’s bewilderment–and general annoyance–the women in attendance hung on his every word as though his very next breath might contain the secret to life. Rebecca was similarly engaged, although she had settled for flirting with a lowly viscount as the duke was six chairs away. Such a distance should have made it easy for Merry to ignore Kendalwood completely, but like a moth drawn to flame she couldn’t help but sneak quick peeks in his direction.
Twice their eyes had already met and twice she had been the first to look away, her gaze darting to her broth or out the window where the show was still falling, drifting up against the side of the stone manor in a sea of frothy white.
Desperate for a distraction, Merry began to shovel broth into her mouth with great vigor until her spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl. Scowling, she nudged the empty dish aside and sat in silence, gloved hands clenched in the folds of her dress and shoulders hunched. She did not want to be here any longer. The constant hum of voices was beginning to make her head ache and the heat wafting down from the chandelier was stifling. What she wouldn’t give to be home by herself, curled up with a good book and a cool glass of water! Every tense line in her body bespoke of her discomfort
, but neither Rebecca nor Mrs. Clearwater seemed to notice anything was amiss. Completely in their element, they chattered on like magpies, eagerly devouring the latest gossip delivered fresh from London just that morning.
From what Merry had been able to gather by listening to bits and pieces of the conversation it seemed someone of great social significance was ‘in the family way’ and was refusing to divulge the identity of the father. It made her wonder what would happen if one day there was no gossip to be had. Would everyone simply sit around the table in silence staring at one another, or would they actually discuss topics of note such as the sustainability of the rising population or the evolution of the steam engine?
“Merry.”
Startling at the sound of her name, Merry glanced sideways and discovered her sister was glaring daggers at her. “Yes?”
“You are doing it again,” Rebecca hissed.
“Doing what?”
“Staring at nothing.”
Merry blinked and looked quickly around. “Is there something I should be staring at?”
Aside from the Duke of Kendalwood.
Even thinking his name was enough to set her teeth on edge. Being this close to him again reminded her of the night they’d first met. It had been raining, she recalled with a faint grimace. Which meant the ball Lady Bridgeton had planned to have in her beautiful gardens had been moved inside. Unfortunately, she hadn’t planned for poor weather and had invited far more guests than her house comfortably allowed. Stacked in like tinned sardines there had barely been enough room for dancing, which had been just fine for Merry, but understandably upsetting for Nicola, Prue, and Rosalind, as they did so love a good waltz.
Newly married, Nicola and Rosalind had attended the soiree with the simple goal of having a splendid time while their husbands smoked cigars and drank brandy in the drawing room. It was Prue who had been on the hunt for a fiancé, and she had set her sights on none other than the Duke of Kendalwood. Even then Merry had not fully understood Kendalwood’s appeal–aside from the obvious, of course–but she hadn’t come to truly despise him until after The Incident.
It was not something she liked to dwell on. Suffice it to say, when all was said and done the duke had left the ball sporting a bright red stain on his cravat and Mrs. Clearwater had been so appalled by her daughter’s behavior she had dragged Merry home on the spot.
For their part, Nicola and Rosalind had found the entire event uproariously hilarious, while Prue had been far less amused. Fortunately, her displeasure had been short lived as she’d met a handsome earl shortly after the duke’s abrupt departure and the two were now happily betrothed.
Or nearly betrothed.
The exact details were a bit murky.
Either way, when Prue married, Merry would be the only one left without a husband. It wasn’t a position she minded so much as the pitying stares and whispered condolences that accompanied being unwed at the age of the two-and-twenty. It was as if she had contracted some deadly disease, and people were already mourning her eventual demise.
Curiously enough, Rebecca had never been the recipient of any sympathetic glances in regards to her marital state (or notable lack thereof) despite being three years older. It was a mystery Merry had not yet been able to solve, although she suspected it had something to do with their overall demeanors.
Rebecca was personable, charming, and coyly flirtatious.
Merry was…none of those things.
The sisters were as opposite as day and night, with nary a common trait that linked them except for the color of their hair. They were so different that sometimes Merry wondered how they got on at all.
This was one of those times.
“Can you not at least pretend to be entertained by the party?” said Rebecca. “You are going to offend Lady Bishop.”
“I am not staring at nothing on purpose,” Merry said defensively. “What would you have me do? I ate all my soup.” She glanced hopefully at Rebecca’s full bowl. “Can I have some of yours?”
“No,” her sister snapped. “As for what you can do, you could try engaging in meaningless conversation like a normal person!”
Merry slumped in her chair. “There is no one here that I know. And I haven’t seen a single cat. Did you lie about that as well?” she asked suspiciously.
“You know Lord and Lady Greer,” Rebecca pointed out, ignoring her question. .
“They are sitting at the opposite end of the table. I would think staring at nothing is vastly preferable to shouting across the room.”
“There is an empty seat beside them.”
“I am comfortable where I am.”
“Yes, but–”
“Girls, do stop fighting.” Setting down her spoon, Mrs. Clearwater dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin before returning it to her lap.
A woman in her fiftieth year, Merry’s mother had managed to retain much of her youthful beauty courtesy of a life easily lived and a husband who gave in to her every demand. Her blonde hair–now threaded lightly with grey–and soft blue eyes in a face she kept carefully creamed and powdered made her nearly an identical (albeit older) version of Rebecca, and there was nothing else she liked more in all the world than being asked if her eldest daughter was in fact her sister.
It was obvious for anyone who happened to glance upon the trio that Rebecca and Mrs. Clearwater were like two peas in a pod, whereas Merry was more of a turnip.
A perfectly nice turnip.
Even a vaguely pretty turnip.
But a turnip nevertheless.
“Rebecca started it,” Merry muttered under her breath.
“And I am ending it.” Mrs. Clearwater gave them both a stern glare. “Do try to behave yourselves. Or have you not noticed who is attendance tonight?” she asked with a meaningful glance towards the head of the table.
Unable to help herself, Merry followed the direction of her mother’s stare…and caught the duke in mid-laugh.
Like everything else about him, the laugh was short and to the point. It ended far more quickly than it should have, and the smile that lingered in the curves of his mouth fell short of his eyes. Eyes that were green as a field after a drenching rainfall and flecked with bits of gold.
Given the unusual color of his gaze, coupled with hair black as midnight, unapologetically bold features, and an athletic build that was far more suited to that of a boxer rather than a man of leisure, and Merry could see why many women had fallen under the duke’s spell. What she did not understand was how they stomached his arrogance.
Suddenly, as if her stare was a palpable thing he could somehow feel upon his flesh, Kendalwood sharply turned his head and met Merry’s gaze.
The intimate contact lasted less than the time it took to extinguish a candle, but the sheer intensity of the duke’s searing stare left Merry breathless for seconds afterwards. Her entire face warmed, as it sometimes did when she fell asleep in front of the fire, and the tips of her fingers began to tingle, something they only did when she was very excited.
With a tiny gasp she looked away, but even as she stared at a painting on a wall, she could not remove Kendalwood’s face from her mind. Or the uncomfortable notion that he had actually seen her.
Not many people did.
See her, that is.
Oh, they looked at her.
They even spoke to her on occasion.
But no one ever saw her.
No one except for her immediate family, and her three dearest friends, and now, it would seem, the irredeemable Duke of Kendalwood…
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Seducing the Siren of Seven Dials (Secret Wallflower Society Book 4) Page 9