A Season for Love (10 page)

It was her mind that was exhausted, Jenny
knew. Already, the strain of wedding a man to whom she was nothing
more than a convenience was taking its toll. And yet . . . there he
was, offering his arm, lending his support as they were, at last,
free to partake of the their own wedding breakfast. The duke was
not openly smiling, but Jenny thought she caught a gleam in the
depths of his golden brown eyes. Relief? Amusement? A hint of
companionship . . . a moment not only of duties endured, but of
duties shared? If so, she would treasure it, for it held the first
breath of hope for the years to come.

They had moved only a few feet along the
upper gallery when a blur of pink froth launched itself onto
Jenny’s peach silk skirt. Small arms wrapped tightly about her
legs.

“
Oh, my lady—beg pardon, Your Grace—I
couldn’t keep her back any longer,” the frantic nursemaid
apologized. “She’s been that determined to see you!”

Jenny peered down at the soft blond curls of
the petite, small-boned child who seemed to have taken all her
physical attributes from her father’s family. The newly created
duchess could not, however, see her daughter’s face, for it was
buried in her skirt. Beside her, the duke had paused, politely
waiting.

“
Susan,” Jen said softly, “you know I
explained to you that I would be gone for a few days, that you
would be staying with your grandparents, right here in Worley House
in your very own room.”

“’
S’not that,” the four-year-old
sniffed.

Jenny bent down, lifting her daughter’s chin
until she could see the solemn blue eyes. “What is it then,
Susan?”

The little girl scowled, evidently carefully
recalling the details of what was on her mind. “Mama,” she
demanded, “what is a ‘great gawk’?”

A sharp intake of breath from the Duke of
Longville. Jenny frowned at the unexpectedness of the question.
“Where did you hear those words, Susan?” she asked.

“
In front of the church. With Uncle
Tony.”

“
Was it from someone in the crowd?” the
duke interjected. Grimly.

Solemnly, Susan nodded, looking up at her
step-father with all the faith and adoration she had never had an
opportunity to give to her own father. “‘Praise be, the little
one’s not a great gawk like her ma and grandma!’” she repeated with
meticulous care.

Viscount Frayne, dispatched by his mama to
find the bride and groom, arrived in time to hear his niece’s
pronouncement. With an inward groan, Tony strode forward and
scooped the little girl into his arms. “All that means, my little
pink bon-bon,” he smiled, “is that you are not going to be as tall
as your mama and grandmama. You are going to be sweet and petite,
and all the young men will be throwing themselves at your feet. Is
that not right, Longville? Your new daughter is going to be all the
rage when she grows up.”

As the duke calmly added his agreement to his
brother-in-law’s words, Jenny was left to appreciate this
demonstration of her brother’s superior social skills. Truthfully,
with her usually agile mind numbed by her daughter’s words, she was
infinitely grateful for his timely intervention.

The duke and duchess went on to enjoy Lady
Worley’s celebration of their nuptials as much as it was possible
for a bride and groom to do so, escaping as soon as the Prince of
Wales took his leave, for they had a journey of several hours ahead
of them. Their original intention had been to stay in London and
enjoy the Season while becoming better acquainted with each other.
But when faced with the prospect of having the early days of their
marriage overseen by three children, one more than a little
hostile, the duke had hastily rearranged their plans. They were to
spend a week at one of his estates in Surrey, a small holding left
to him by a distant relative. The duke, with his customary
disregard for how his actions might affect the lesser mortals
around him, sent a messenger to Totten Court, informing them of his
arrival—with bride—on Saturday eve, a scant thirty-six hours in the
future. The housekeeper at the Court required burnt feathers under
her nose and Cook went into strong hysterics, drumming her heels on
the kitchen tiles.

In the first twenty minutes after their
arrival, the Duke of Longville sacked the estate manager,
apologized profusely to his bride, and suggested, somewhat
sheepishly, that they repair to the nearest inn. His bride merely
laughed and informed him Totten Court would have looked like a
palace on the Peninsula. But now, alone in the sole inhabitable
bedroom, Jenny was not so sure she had been wise. The whole day—no,
the entire past fortnight—came rushing back in a highly
disconcerting panorama of shock, fear, and a wavering heart. The
duke would soon join her—and there was no place to hide. There was
an adjoining suite, once occupied by the master of the house, but,
as the housekeeper had pointed out with abject apologies, the
draperies and bed hangings were in tatters, long past repair. If
only they might have had more notice . . .

The duke had been left with little choice. He
would have to join his wife in the ancient oak tester bed hung with
faded azure velvet.

Jenny heaved a heartfelt sigh. She, the great
gawk, was married to one of the most attractive and powerful men in
the realm. What could she possibly offer him? How could she
possibly please him?

Great gawk
. Out
of the mouths of babes. Jenny sat, forlornly slumped, on the chair
that matched the burled walnut dressing table. The great gawk
staring at her from the mirror seemed woefully unattractive. At
five feet-ten inches she looked down on many of the
ton
’s finest gentlemen.
’Tis a wonder she found a husband at all, let
alone two
. She’d heard that remark more than once.
But
great gawk
hurt. And that
the duke should have heard the tale was particularly
mortifying.

On their nearly silent journey from London
Jen had told herself her husband would not come to her tonight. The
Duke of Longville had an heir and was, perhaps, not anxious for a
spare. All he wanted was a mother for the children he had.
Therefore they were merely going to Surrey to have a little privacy
in which to expand their rather formal acquaintance.

Or so she had thought until that awkward
moment when they discovered there was only one usable bedroom.
Jenny had seen a look cross the duke’s face. Distaste? Yes, she was
almost certain that was what it was. It did not occur to her that
his disgust might have been for the state of the household or
perhaps with himself for not keeping a closer eye on the details of
his vast estates.

Jen winced as she took another peek in the
mirror. The soft glow of candlelight could not disguise the
transparency of the fine silk dressing gown and the gossamer silk
bedgown beneath. Even through two layers of material the small
brown spot above her right breast was visible. Jenny hugged
herself, blotting out the offending birthmark. She would have put
on her old white cotton nightwear except she knew her maid would
have been horrified . In fact, Tess had undoubtedly packed nothing
but the newest and most attractive of her bride clothes, including
the many shocking pieces of nightwear and undergarments her mama
had insisted on buying for her. It was not every day, Lady Worley
had declared, that one acquired a duke on the family tree.

A soft tapping on the door. Jen willed
herself to stay seated, presenting a compact and charming picture
of a bride awaiting her husband, but as the door opened, she bobbed
to her feet as if jerked upright by an invisible puppet master.
There she stood, her legs threatening to turn to jelly, her heart
pounding a torrent of cacophony into her ears.

Marcus stared. She was glorious, simply
glorious. Rich brown hair tumbled about his bride’s shoulders, over
the fullness of her scarcely veiled breasts. Her brow was high,
green eyes punctuated by a proud nose and underlined by lips as
generous as her breasts. No, his new duchess was not beautiful as
Amy had been beautiful. Lady Eugenia—Jenny, his Jenny—had the kind
of handsomeness and inner beauty that would last a lifetime.

He had done well for himself.

The Duke of Longville took a second
look, one not quite so dazzled by his first sight of his statuesque
bride
en déshabillé
. “Good
God! Are you frightened?” he demanded.

“
Oh, no!”

“
Come now, Jen,” he chided her obvious
fib. “It cannot be the unknown,” he added thoughtfully, “so it must
be myself.”

“
No . . . truly, I do not fear you,”
she burbled.

“
You are so white you might as well be
a ghost ejected from these walls by the first sign of life in
years. And your eyes are so wide I wager I could drive my curricle
through them.”

At that, Jen managed a smile. “No . . .
Marcus, you have given me no reason to fear you, I assure you. You
have been everything that is kind.”

“
But not as communicative as you might
wish?”

“
Perhaps so.” She nodded, hands
clutched tightly together in front of her most intimate parts. “But
that is of no matter. It is forgotten.”

Scowling, Marcus turned and strode to a dark
walnut clothespress, methodically stripping off his rings, his
diamond tie pin, the white linen folds of his cravat. He paused,
realizing he had sent his valet to bed in expectation of his wife’s
aid in divesting himself of his form-fitting charcoal jacket of the
finest wool.

The words that came out of his mouth were not
at all what he planned to say. “You are wearing the willow then?”
he said quietly. “I apologize, my dear, I should have been more
sensitive. Today has brought back thoughts of your first wedding.
How could it be else?”

“
Oh, no!” Jen cried once again. And it
was quite true. “Gordon told me—he lived for two weeks after he was
wounded, you see,” she explained. “He knew he was dying and urged
me to remarry, to make a new life for the baby and myself. I would
not heed him at the time, but, later, I was grateful. He freed me
to do as I wish—as I felt proper.”

Marcus tugged at the sleeve of his jacket.
Jenny, belatedly realizing his problem, rushed forward to help.
Together, they removed the garment, Jenny carefully hanging it in
the clothespress, a piece of furniture considerably shorter than
the tall wardrobes to which she was accustomed. The duke looked
down, as if his whole attention were concentrated on undoing the
buttons of his waistcoat. “Then you find me too old,” he murmured
without looking up.

Jenny’s “Oh, no!” slipped out before
she could stop it.
Idiot!
He
would think those were the only words she knew.

The duke’s piercing amber eyes fixed on her
face. “Eugenia,” he said softly, “there has to be some reason you
look as if you wished to be absolutely anywhere but here.”

Jenny Norville Wharton Carlington looked
straight back. Her determined chin rose a notch. She had survived a
great deal worse than a wedding night with one of the most handsome
and intriguing men in the land. He was hers. Perhaps not in his
heart, but who could change that except herself?

“
You are mistaken,” she told him. “I
may have had a few moments of bridal qualms, Marcus, but I married
you of my own free will. I wish to be here. I believe we are well
suited.” She pursed her lips, conjured a wan smile. “If I was
fearful, it was of failure to please. I remember Lady Longville’s
ethereal beauty. And over the past three years I have seen you in
company with none but the most lovely women in England. Why should
I not wonder why you chose me? How could you possibly find me
pleasing?”

Marcus covered his eyes with his hand,
head shaking in disbelief. He sagged back against the clothespress.
Finally, after long moments of silence, he peered at his bride over
his knuckles. He took a deep breath. “First of all,” he declared,
dropping his hand to his side, “I gave my most recent
chère amie
her
congé
some weeks before we were betrothed.
Somehow she had turned quite insipid and cloying,” he added drily,
tossing his wife a look full of significance. “Second, although I
admit to being a difficult man, I believe I can say I had the pick
of the Marriage Mart. At least the Duke of Longville did, if not
Marcus Carlington,” he qualified. “And I chose you. Does that not
tell you something, Jenny? I should, at least, hope it would.” So
why in bloody hell did she look so puzzled?

“
You
like
me?” Jen ventured. “Is that what you are
saying?”

“
Good God, woman, why else would I
marry you?” the duke roared.

As a prelude to romance, the scene was not
promising.

Jenny clasped her hands in front of her
mouth, rocking slowly back and forth in her embroidered silk
slippers. Her shoulders shook.

“
Are you
laughing
?” he demanded.

She turned her head, wiping a knuckled fist
across her cheek.

Hell and Damnation, she was crying!

Thoroughly frustrated, the Duke of Longville
gripped the top of the clothespress with both hands, his dark head
bent above his discarded jewelry, the ghostly white of his
neckcloth, the fine white-on-white embroidery of his waistcoat.
Despair flooded through him. A man of his address, his expertise
with women, and he had made a mull of his wedding night.