A Season for Love (25 page)

Jen had been sitting in her bedchamber for a
full half hour, propped up on a pile of pillows, staring at the
locked door to the dressing room. Her emotions ranged from pinnacle
to abyss. She would unlock the door and see what happened. Ah, yes
. . . they would have a passionate reconciliation, resulting in
Laurence’s deliverance from Eton.

She would keep the door locked forever
and ever. She would follow the first duchess’s lead into exile.
She, too, would bear a child in secret, and never, ever, tell
Marcus. This son would
never
go to Eton.

She would ask Tony to intercede. She
should, perhaps, have thought of this approach days earlier. Tony,
as a
male
, actually had some
influence. Marcus valued his opinion.

How extremely lowering to think that her
younger brother had more influence with her husband than she. Never
would she stoop to asking Tony’s help!

How could she not? Laurence was so very
young, so unhappy. The little boy’s tear-streaked face continued to
haunt her. And even though the tears had long since dried, he
refused to leave the nursery for fear of encountering his father.
Truthfully, neither Jen, nor Caroline, nor Sarah Tompkins had tried
very hard to dissuade him. Hiding from the wrath of the Duke of
Longville seemed a propitious move to them all.

She
was the
duchess, Jen told herself sternly. She had taken on the burden of
the duke’s children. That was why he had married her, and she would
not falter at the first sign of trouble. If she backed down now,
Marcus would ride roughshod over her for the rest of their married
lives.

But it was hard, very hard. Quarreling was
not at all what she wished to do with her husband. Jen was swept by
a wave of longing, by desire so strong it curled her toes.

A fortunate moment, perhaps, for the door to
shudder once, twice, and come crashing open, banging so hard
against the chest topped by a porcelain pitcher and bowl that water
sloshed out, dripping down the fine walnut finish.

Marcus Carlington, quite obviously clad only
in his black silk dressing gown with nothing beneath, strode to his
wife’s bed. He stood, glaring down at her, arms crossed over his
chest as if that were the only way he could keep from wringing her
neck. “Never, ever,” he declared, “do that again. There is nothing,
Jen, absolutely nothing more designed to turn a man into a balky
mule.”

His wife’s face crumpled. “I know,” she
murmured, hanging her head. “It was sheer stubbornness.” With
considerable courage she raised her head, looking into the hard
depths of his amber eyes. “Do you not see, Marcus? I had to defend
the poor child. That is why you married me, to be mother to your
children. It was my
duty
to
make you see how wrong it is to send him away so soon.”

The duke uncrossed his hands, placing one
fist beneath his chin and staring at his wife in considerable
puzzlement. “Jen,” he said at last, “when I made you an offer, I
did not know I had a son.”

The duchess, after a moment of looking taken
aback, recovered quickly. “But you knew you had a daughter to bring
out and you wanted an heir.”

“
True . . . but surely you cannot think
that is the only reason I married you? I have a remarkable number
of relatives who would have been happy to take on the position of
Caroline’s chaperon, with the dowager as her sponsor. And, quite
frankly, a rather longer list of ladies anxious to stand at the
head of the ducal staircase.”

“
Oh.” Jen repressed a sharp frisson of
joy. He could not possibly be implying theirs was a love match. She
knew better.

The bed sagged, as with the familiarity
of five weeks of marriage, the Duke of Longville shoved aside his
wife’s legs, which were beneath the covers, and sat on the edge of
the bed. “Look at me, Jen,” he commanded. Slowly, her chin came up,
her lashes lifted. Great green eyes regarded him with a strange mix
of wariness and hope. In the past few uncomfortable days, Marcus
had had ample time to recognize that his wife’s gallant defense
of
his
cub was not at all the
same as first wife’s fear of intimacy. For all his hours of anguish
and fury, Jenny and Amy truly had nothing in common.

At least he did not think so. He was here to
find out.

“
Do you actually believe,” he inquired
silkily, “that I, the man who has taken prodigious enjoyment in
women for more years than either of us should think on, would take
on a leg-shackle unless I truly wished it?” In the light of a
single glass-encased candle beside his wife’s bed, the duke peered
closely at his duchess. Deciding the case was desperate, he
gambled. “Come, Jen, do you think I would marry such an Amazon of a
woman—one who could box my ears, if she chose—unless I fancied her
for my life’s companion? Did you think me incapable of admiring
your strength, your resolution, your kind heart, your steadfast
devotion to your family . . . and to your child?”

His wife’s eyes had become huge, her lips
trembled. Marcus kept his hands off her with some difficulty. “Has
it not occurred to you that I looked forward to talking with you,
even long ago before you put off your blacks? Surely you cannot be
indifferent to the many times we later danced and laughed and
talked? If I had not been certain you looked forward to our
colloquies as much as I, I never would have declared my
intentions.” Was that a flicker of hope he saw in those green eyes?
He could only hope so.

“
Jen,” he continued on a more teasing
note, “do you not recall that evening last year in Wentworth’s
garden?” Mutely, she nodded. “And the Pelhampton’s Christmas
Party?” The duchess blushed. “Would you call those occasions the
actions of a man and a woman making a marriage of
convenience?”

“
You are a man of great address,” Jen
ventured. “How could I believe your—ah—amorous attentions were
solely for me?”

“
Je-en,” the duke warned. “You cannot
possibly believe I would trifle with a woman of your stature? No,
no, I do not mean your height, silly goose. I speak of your
position in society. Worley or your brother would have had me on
the greensward at dawn in a trice.”

“
I did not expect an offer,” Jen told
him flatly. “I was, in fact, astounded.”

“
And, therefore, in spite of the more
than warm moments that had passed between us, Marcus pronounced
with thinly veiled sarcasm, “you convinced yourself I was making a
marriage of convenience.”

“
Everyone speaks of my competence, of
my strength,” Jen countered swiftly. “Truly, I could not imagine
your choosing me for any other reasons.”

Idly, the duke ran his fingers down the
bulge in the covers that was his wife’s leg. “
Mea culpa,
” he admitted. “It pleased me to think
you understood what was in my mind, but, more exactly, I had had
one wife who was in love with the term
love
, but who truly did not know what the word
meant. Physical love was anathema to her, so much so I became
terrified of speaking the word aloud. You can have no idea how
grateful I am that you have embraced me as well as our
marriage.”

“
Oh, my dear,” Jen murmured, tears
rushing to her eyes.

“
Therefore, it is not easy for me to
say the word
love
,” Marcus
told her. “I fear you will jump up and run screaming from the
room.”

“
I promise you I shall not.” Jen
clasped her hands beneath her chin and waited, eyes still
ostensibly wide and wary. But in the green depths the flicker of
hope had become a steadily increasing glow.

The Duke of Longville sucked in a deep
breath, his senses attuned only to the gentle hint of lavender,
roses, and
woman
who was his wife. His
Jen. His companion. And lover. “My dear Jen,” he declared, “I
married you because I wished to spend the rest of my life with you.
And I want to do that because I love you. There now . . . you hold
my life and all my secrets in your hand.”

A very long time later the duke stirred and
remembered to murmur something into the ear of his exhausted but
exceedingly happy wife. “I seem to have forgotten to tell you,” he
whispered, “before supper tonight I went up to the nursery and told
Laurence he would not have to go to Eton until next year. You were
quite right, my dear. A very salutary lesson it was to learn that,
on occasion, I might be wrong. Keep up your good efforts. I daresay
I shall be wrong another time or two in the next forty years.”

The Duchess of Longville snuggled close to
her husband, the warmth of their nakedness threatening to set off
another bout of marital bliss. She could not reply, as her heart
was so full it seemed to overflow and stopper up her mouth. This
was a moment to be tucked away in her memory forever.

Incredibly, Marcus loved her. All would be
well.

~ * ~

“
Laurence,” Lady Caroline declared,
“must you look so hangdog? ’Tis only one short visit.”

“
Why does not Susan have to go?” The
Marquess of Huntley’s chin was set in a stubborn line.

“
Young man, you have barely escaped
your papa’s wrath about school. Pray do not add anything
more.”

“
Papa has forgiven me,” Laurence stated
grandly. “He is pleased to have another whole year to make the
acquaintance of his heir.”

Lady Caroline crossed her arms, glaring at
Laurence with that look so common to females afflicted with younger
brothers. “Indeed, your lordship,” she countered. “Do you recall
Miss Tompkins’s description of what Red Indians do to their
victims?”

“
They scalp them!” the marquess
responded with considerable relish, not at all intimidated by his
sister’s outrageously exaggerated warning.

“
That is correct,” Caroline declared,
grabbing a handful of her brother’s dark locks. She tightened her
grip, receiving only a cheeky grin in response. “And if you do not
get down those stairs at once, I shall be happy to demonstrate
exactly how it is done.” With her other hand, Caroline gave her
brother a sharp swat on the seat of his elegant high-waisted
breeches. “Move! Your grandmother is waiting.”

Truthfully, the children of the Duke of
Longville were united in dislike of their weekly duty visits to
their grandmother, for the dowager never failed to decry their
exceptional upbringing in the country, far from the influence of
her son, the infallible Duke of Longville. Nor did she spare their
ears from the latest nasty gossip, stating firmly that they should
be aware of what was being said so her grandchildren could, by
excessively formal manners, demonstrate that they were
pattern-cards of well behavior and put the tart-tongued tabbies to
the blush.

Fortunately, the dowager duchess’s cook had
more feeling for what was appropriate for visiting grandchildren.
The food served with tea continued to live up to the standards of
the younger Carlingtons’ initial visit, being the only bright spot
amidst the dowager’s exhortations on good behavior, moderation in
all things, and quizzing Caroline for detailed descriptions of
every one of her myriad activities as the London Season progressed.
Truly, Caroline did not mind the latter as it diverted the
conversation from the dowager’s tirades on manners and morals. And
spared Laurence’s ears from the repetition of vicious gossip.

But today—despite what she had told
Laurence—Caroline’s personal reluctance to visit their grandmother
was more severe than her brother’s. There could be little doubt the
dowager would positively pounce upon the particular attentions
being shown to her by Viscount Frayne. For weeks now, the dowager
had only hinted at the topic of herself and Lord Frayne, the
gauntlet never openly thrown down between them. But after the
incident at the Grantley’s ball . . .

How would she reply? Caroline wondered. Her
confusion grew with each passing day. If, for some mysterious
reason, Tony failed to appear at one of the events she was
attending, or—even worse—if he failed to appear on the doorstep of
Longville House, her day was bleak. Ruined. Dull as ditchwater.

Yet he was a careless fribble. A
town
beau
with nothing more to
offer than a handsome face and a charming smile. A man who wished
to capture her as just one more prize and be off in pursuit of the
next directly after. She should be ashamed of herself. Her poor
mama would be horrified to know her daughter had so ill-heeded her
admonitions.

Lady Caroline found herself paused at the
bottom of the staircase, her brow furrowed in a frown, and her
brother scowling at her from near the front door as if to say, “You
did insist we go to grandmother’s, did you not?”

Swiftly crossing the foyer, Caroline
straightened Laurence’s lace-trimmed collar, then tweaked his
floppy bow tie in place. Fresh air rushed in as Sims threw open the
door and Viscount Frayne strode in.

“
Uncle Tony!” the marquess crowed in
delight.

“
Frayne,” Caroline nodded, at her most
formal. “I fear we are off to visit the dowager.”

“
Then allow me to offer my escort,” he
responded gallantly. “I have not seen Lady Longville for some time,
except for a passing nod.”

“
Capital!” Laurence exclaimed. “She
will not be such a scold if you are there.”