His Favorite Mistake

by Aydra Richards

  “It’s Mary, isn’t it?” Jilly asked.

  The girl dipped another curtsey. “Yes, ma’am.” She took a hesitant step forward. “Beg pardon, ma’am, but I never was a lady’s maid before. It’s just that I had the most experience with hairstyles and such, what with having four sisters.”

  “I’m sure we’ll do very well together,” Jilly said. “Though I’m not sure you’ll be able to do much with this,” she added, touching her hair apologetically. “My last lady’s maid, Victoria, quite despaired of it.”

  “Oh, no, ma’am,” Mary said fervently. “My sister, Sarah, has curls just like yours, and I can do such lovely things with them. It’s ever so much harder to work a curl into straight hair. I’d—I’d be happy to show you.” She’d stopped wringing her hands, but had instead clenched them in the skirts of her dress, as if she expected to be turned away. Probably she had never thought to have such a prestigious, if temporary, role.

  “I would like that,” Jilly said, making her way toward the vanity set against the wall opposite the dressing room. “Perhaps you could tell me a bit about the residence while you do. I’m afraid I don’t know very much about it, yet. I would like to learn everyone’s names, but I’m afraid it may take me some time.”

  “You remembered mine,” Mary noted with a shy smile as she pulled the low chair out from where it was pushed in beneath the counter. “Most ladies wouldn’t have bothered, I suppose.”

  Jilly sat, pursing her lips to blow that dratted curl away from her eyes as Mary began plucking pins from her hair. “Some of them, I suppose. I’ve always found it nicer to address people by name.”

  Mary retrieved Jilly’s comb from where it had been placed on the counter, and began to gently pick through her curls. Jilly was rather relieved to find Mary had a deft, gentle touch. Victoria’s had been a great deal more severe, wrestling Jilly’s hair into strict compliance even if her efforts had threatened to yank her mistress’ hair from her head.

  “Lady Gloriana calls us all Mary,” Mary confessed. “It’s well enough for me I suppose, and we do have rather a lot of Marys.”

  Seven, at least as far as Jilly remembered from the introductions.

  “But we’ve also got four Catherines, three Annes, two Elizabeths, two Janes, and a Susan,” Mary continued. “And I don’t just wonder how well they find it.”

  Jilly wrinkled her nose. “I suppose I’ll have a gentle word with her when she returns,” she said. “I’ve never approved of treating the staff in such a cavalier manner. Is she otherwise polite?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am,” Mary said, ducking down to rifle through the vanity drawers in search of something. “I don’t mean to imply she isn’t. She’s just a bit spoiled, ma’am, in that way that some young ladies are. Flighty, you know. A touch thoughtless, but sweet nonetheless. His Grace dotes on her, he does.” She had retrieved a length of jade green ribbon, and began the process of winding it through Jilly’s hair. “I unpacked your things, ma’am. I hope you won’t mind me taking the liberty of choosing a color. You’ve got a lovely green gown that just about matches.”

  And Mary had effortlessly picked a color that would complement Jilly’s vivid hair and complexion, rather than making her look washed out and shallow. Within a few moments, Mary had completed a simple style that tamed but did not fully conquer Jilly’s curls. It was far less severe a style than Victoria would have accomplished, but it felt a great deal more comfortable and suited her even more. She turned her head to each side, admiring the silky shine of the ribbon threaded through her bright hair.

  “It looks lovely, Mary. You’ve done a wonderful job.” She turned in her seat. “I would like you to stay on as my lady’s maid, if you would be so kind.”

  “Oh, Your Grace,” Mary said, wringing her hands again. “Shouldn’t you like to have a real one? You could send away for one of them real French lady’s maids, like what they have in London.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Jilly said. “I fear one of them would always be trying to make more of me than I am, and I really do prefer a simpler style wherever possible.” She cast a smile up at the younger girl. “I think we would get on famously, don’t you?”

  For half a moment, something flickered in Mary’s eyes that was very nearly regretful. But at last she said, “Yes, ma’am. As long as you like.”

  ∞∞∞

  It had been a perfectly lovely evening, all things considered. He had tried not think of how well Jilly had looked, nestled in her chair in the library, awash in the glow of the firelight as they waited for Bartleby to call them into dinner.

  She had given him such an enchanting smile when he had offered her a small glass of brandy rather than the cloyingly sweet wine that ladies were supposed to prefer. Pleasant conversation between them had flowed like water, and he had almost—almost—been able to forget, for a few blessed moments, that everything between them was built upon a lie.

  The reminder had been cast into his face during dinner, when he had been served a slice of beef that could have doubled for shoe leather.

  Across the twenty or so feet of mahogany dinner table that stretched between them, he could see Jilly tucking into her own meal with ease and obvious enjoyment. He doubted his knife would have managed to carve up his own. His potatoes had been doused in so much salt that his mouth had puckered the instant they had touched his tongue. The duck had been drowned in a sauce that tasted of fireplace ash, and the asparagus cooked until it gave an unpleasant squish beneath the tines of his fork. What he had assumed was an apple tart had turned out instead to be stuffed with turnips instead, with nary a single sprinkle of sugar to recommend them.

  And Bartleby, stationed near the center of the table at the ready to fetch anything required, had leveled him such a severe look that it had instantly quieted any complaint he might’ve been inclined to give. Clearly he could not eat what he had been served—it hadn’t been fit for human consumption. But to do anything other than quietly push his food around on his plate in a manner that would give at least a reasonable facsimile of eating would alert Jilly that something was wrong.

  The staff knew, of course, that Jilly was not, in point of fact, his duchess. Plainly they, lead by Bartleby, intended to make their disapproval clear. He had suspected that this would not be the last such rebellion he would experience at their hands.

  And unless he had missed his guess entirely, the whole of his staff would roundly adore her. She was, after all, eminently adorable.

  Dinner concluded interminable minutes later, and James’ stomach had protested its emptiness with a painful cramp. Still, he had conducted her to her room—to the duchess’ chamber—with a minimum of fuss, bussing a kiss over her cheek and leaving her to prepare for bed.

  He had paced the floor of his own room ever since, intimately aware that she was just beyond the connecting door, doubtless waiting for him to come to her. Her husband. Their wedding night.

  Or so she thought, more fool her.

  Damn. This wretched guilt could flay the skin from his back. He had thought, truly thought, that he could do this, that he could ruin her in cold blood and cast her aside as easily as he would strip off a sullied shirt. And maybe, if she had been a woman of her brother’s mold, he could have. Perhaps if she had been as shallow, as callous, then he would have suffered only the most minor of bruises to his conscience.

  But she was Jilly. And he could not do it to her. Because she was too good, too kind, too precious to injure in that fashion. He hadn’t wanted to like her, just as she had not wanted to love him. But it was impossible not to like her, not to respect her.

  Not to love her?

  The words crashed across his brain like a tidal wave, sending his scattered thoughts reeling to the far corners of his mind. In a fit of desperation he yanked at his cravat, pulling free the snowy linen that felt suddenly like a noose about his neck.

  If only she had been anyone other than herself, he could have resisted her. He’d turned up his nose at countle
ss whey-faced young ladies. They had all blurred together after a while anyway, each one just as insipid, just as dull and uninspiring as the last. But somehow he had been held captive by Jilly’s flagrant lack of deference, by her effortless charm…by the scattering of freckles right across the bridge of her nose, that wayward curl that would never stay where it was meant to.

  Damn. Damn.

  He was going to have to do something, explain to her his deception—no. His stomach lurched in a way that had nothing to do with hunger pangs. If he did, if he confessed what he had planned for her…it would kill all of that fragile new love that shone in her eyes for him. That bright spark would gutter out in a second, extinguished by the magnitude of his betrayal. He could see it in his head already, the moment that her love would die, her bright eyes clouded with pain.

  He closed his eyes in an effort to will the image out of his mind, but it would not fade. He knew exactly what it would do to her, had seen the devastation wrought by another foolish man, and that had been three years removed from the event itself.

  No. He could never tell her. He couldn’t bear to hurt her like that, couldn’t bear to watch her love turn to ashes before his eyes. His heart—that wretched organ he had so long denied—gave a vicious, painful thump in his chest.

  He had committed so many wrongs already. It would take time to set right, time to untangle the mess he’d made of his life and hers. Their life. The one they could have together. If it could be salvaged, if he could erase enough evidence of his misdeeds to obfuscate the truth of it, if he could only spare her that knowledge…then they might find something approximating true happiness. If he could survive the guilt of it.

  Nick—Nick would help, surely. He had liked Jilly, had taken James to task often enough for his cruel pursuit of her. He would no doubt stem whatever gossip had arisen when Jilly had been discovered missing. But there was little time in which to act. Nick had not attended the house party, and the moment it concluded, those who had been in attendance would return to London with their stories. Nick would need to have planted a false story to counter the truth before then, to head off the tales that could ruin Jilly at the pass.

  James slammed his eyes shut and dug his nails into his palms, fighting the nausea that climbed up his throat. Nick was a better man than he, after all—he could be trusted to act with honor and integrity. He would have to send a note to Nick, of course, as soon as possible—

  The connecting door creaked open, and James whirled. His heart leapt into his throat as dread settled over him like a shroud. Of course she would come to him—she was not some shy, retiring miss married straight out of her first Season. She was a woman grown, strong enough, confident enough to seek him out, to rout him in his own room.

  She crept through the door, her bare toes peeping out from beneath the hem of her wrapper. Her hair had been left down, and his breath caught in his chest. The firelight loved her, caught in her tumbled curls and made them glow like living flame. Her wrapper, an unadorned pale green silk, was belted properly at her waist, and the light cast her legs in silhouette straight through the thin material.

  She hadn’t spotted him yet. She had paused just past the doorway, her gaze drifting slowly over the room, taking in the furnishings, the décor. He wondered what she had gleaned from her slow perusal, what conclusions she would draw of him. He wished—

  He wished he could have gone to her this evening without a gutful of guilt, with nothing between them but vows spoken in earnest.

  He wished she was his wife.

  “Jilly,” he said at last, but the word came out a croak, hoarse and uneven. The last gasp of a drowning man without a prayer of rescue.

  She turned toward him at last, and a glorious smile wreathed her face. A dimple shone in her cheek, and she looked at once nervous and excited, nearly giddy.

  “I probably shouldn’t have intruded,” she said as she crossed the floor to where he stood near the window. “But it was growing late, and…”

  And he’d failed to come to her. Because he couldn’t. He hadn’t the right.

  James cleared his throat, resisting the urge to step away from her. Temptation was a powerful thing. The very last thing he needed at the moment was Jilly in his room, draped in clinging silk, looking so much like a…a new bride on her wedding night.

  Damn.

  “It has been quite a long day,” he said, with a touch of desperation. “It would be unconscionable to make demands of you. You must be exhausted—”

  “I’m not.”

  “Of course you are.” He sounded vaguely panicked even to himself. “It’s been a long day, after all—”

  “Yes, so you’ve said already.” Her lips pursed together as if she were trying to hold back a laugh. She sidled a bit closer and tipped her head back to peer up into his face as she laid one hand on his chest. “James, are you nervous?”

  “Yes,” he blurted out. He snatched at her hand intending to draw it away, but somehow his fingers refused his command to do so. They spread over hers, covering her hand with his own.

  “I rather thought that I was supposed to be the nervous one,” she said dryly. With a speculative glance she inquired, “You have done this before? I mean to say, I had assumed, but men don’t generally speak of such things in mixed company. And of course, ladies are supposed to pretend we don’t know about them.”

  She thought him a virgin? The absurdity of the situation wrested a laugh from somewhere deep in his chest. “Oh, God,” he groaned. “Yes, I have done this before, and no, I am not a virgin.”

  “Well, then, whyever should you be nervous?” She had eased even closer, so close he could feel the heat of her body, and he swallowed hard, willing down the stab of desire that pierced him.

  “I’ve never had a wife before,” he said, inanely. He curled his free hand into a fist to prevent himself from reaching for her and felt his blunt nails bite into his palm. The brief flicker of pain made him draw in a swift breath, and his head swam as that sweet vanilla and almond scent she wore assailed him. God help him, but he couldn’t imagine making it through tea time without incident ever again.

  “I’ve never had a husband,” Jilly said with an impish grin. “But I would like to have. Tonight.”

  Christ. His eyes slammed closed, and he swallowed down the appallingly feral sound that rose in his throat. Dukes weren’t supposed to make sounds like those. He wasn’t supposed to be imagining tossing Jilly upon his bed, peeling the delicate silk away from her, and losing himself in her soft, sleek body.

  Velvet-soft lips brushed his, and he shuddered. Against his better intentions, as if they belonged to someone else, his hands reached for her and his arms slid around her. He buried his hands in the curls that tumbled down her back, all that lustrous silk twined about his fingers. It felt bright, warm and sultry, as if she carried the heat of the summer sun tucked away in her hair. He felt the press of her small body against his own and marveled at how perfectly she fit within the circle of his arms, how comfortable it was to have her nestled up against him. His wife, held close to his heart.

  But she’s not your wife.

  The thought came distantly this time, and he could not resist the magic she wove around him. The ardent caress of her lips invited—demanded—a response. And she purred with satisfaction when he gave it at last, when his palm cradled her head and he slanted his mouth over hers, tasting and exploring.

  She protested his leisurely pace, lifting herself onto her toes with a little hum of discontent and sliding her palms up over his shoulders. Her arms draped around his neck; her breasts pressed against his chest. And, of course, there was no nightgown beneath her wrapper—only the incredible heat of her skin. Unconsciously, his right hand slid down her back and curved over her hip, urging her closer. She gave a soft gasp into his mouth as she felt the evidence of his arousal pressed against her belly. A moment later she drew back slightly, her cheeks glowing pink even in the low light.

  Her lips quirked into an awk
ward grin. “I suppose you’re, er…not fit for a ballroom?”

  He dropped a rusty laugh into her riotous curls and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “No,” he said. He couldn’t force his hands to release her, his arms to drop back to his sides. The half-dozen excuses he’d invented had fled his brain, and all he could think of was Jilly. In his arms. In his bed. “You’re not nervous?”

  Her shoulders hitched in a half-shrug. “Maybe a little,” she admitted. “But Nora said you would know what to do, and that it’s lovely even if it is undignified.”

  “Thank God for Lady Ravenhurst,” he said, with no small amount of feeling. “I can’t imagine what sort of nonsense anyone else would have filled your head with.” At least Lady Ravenhurst had had the good sense to inform Jilly without making the act seem sordid or distasteful. With no mother to guide her, and only a maiden aunt ill-equipped to offer such advice, he doubted Jilly would have anyone else upon whom to prevail.

  He knew there were many women who did not enjoy marital relations, many more husbands who cared little whether or not their wives found satisfaction in their beds. Jilly was not going to be one of them.

  “Will you take me to bed?” Jilly’s palm slid down his chest, coming to rest just over his heart. “If you’re not too tired? It has been—”

  “A long day. Yes. I know.” He couldn’t refuse her. She wanted her wedding night, with her new husband, whom she loved. How could he refuse her? “I’m not too tired,” he said. And he swept her into his arms, and carried his wife to his bed.

  Not your wife. This time, the mental recrimination hit him with only the tiniest sliver of guilt.

  Because she would be his wife—just as soon as he could work out how to manage it.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Jilly tugged her loose hair over her shoulder and watched her husband move about the large room, dousing the few lamps that remained lit. The fire glowed across the room, but it had burned low, its faint light muted, dampened by the heavy drapes that shrouded the bed.