The Accidental Duchess (26 page)

A woman sat on a divan, his card in her hand. She had chestnut hair streaked with coppery lights. She possessed the kind of precise beauty that would make Ambury look twice, and lead men to believe she was the mistress of a duke.

“Miss Trilby, it is good to finally make your acquaintance. This is Viscount Kendale. I want to talk to you about the enterprises your brother, you, and Baron Lakewood engaged in to further your fortunes.”

She dared a pose of hauteur. “I am sure I do not know what you are talking about.”

He turned to Kendale. “Have your men take her into custody. We will bring her to London, and let the agents of the Home Office conduct this inquiry.”

She stood, alarmed. “If you would explain yourself, I will do all I can to help. Has my brother done something to attract the government’s attention?”

“Blackmail, most recently. Before that the sale of commissions and, of particular interest, a bit of spying. A minor bit, but the word still fits.”

Her hands went to her face in dismay. Her eyes brimmed with tears. She turned away. “Oh, Algernon. Stupid, stupid Algernon.”

Penthurst walked over until he stood in front of her bowed distress. “Yes, stupid Algernon. So stupid that I cannot see him managing it on his own. Had it all stopped with Lakewood’s death, I might have assumed he invented everything. Since it did not, that only leaves you as the mind behind it all.”

 • • • 

“D
o you think she will do as you told her?” Kendale said while they walked to their horses two hours later.

“It is the smart choice, and that is not a stupid woman.”

“I don’t like it. Better for it all to come out. The two of them should suffer the fate they chose when they lured him into this.”

Lure was too kind a word. He doubted Lakewood had resisted long, at least not on the commissions. That pretty face in there would have been very persuasive. The two of them had known each other for years, and a man lusting after a woman could fall fast if of weak character.

“It is better this way.” He mounted his horse. “She will do as I said. She will make the meeting.”

“Because you will have her brother? I would not count on it. She looks the sort to let him swing while she sells out and runs.”

She would want to do that, but she would not. Not because of loyalty to her brother either. Greed would move her, as it had all along. He had let her know, obliquely and indirectly so as not to alert Kendale to the reference, that a good deal of money would be waiting at the meeting.

“Will you be needing me for the denouement?” Kendale asked as they turned their horses to the road.

“I think not. There are others in town, should I decide to bring an army. You can return to your bride, although she has probably tired of you by now and was glad to have you gone for a few days.”

Kendale thought that was very funny. “Speak for yourself, Penthurst.” He laughed as he led his men down the road.

L
ydia thought she would go mad. It had been bad enough to carry an aching heart back to London, and to nurse it for four days now. It had been sheer hell to anticipate the disappointment and anger Penthurst would show when he finally returned too. Now she had information that would add an unexpected layer to the whole plot.

Lakewood and Trilby had known each other.

“You are very sure?” she said to her aunt Amelia. She had paid a duty call, in order to distract herself.

She had not allowed Rosalyn to come this time. Rosalyn had been treating her like an invalid ever since her return. Suddenly it was “poor Lydia” and cooing sympathies that made no sense. Last night she had said Lydia could thank her that Penthurst apologized. Only he hadn’t, nor could she remember a reason he should. She suspected this all had to do with those rumors about erotic impositions, but the notion that Rosalyn knew and contemplated that was not to be entertained.

“Oh, yes,” Amelia said. Her soft, round face creased into a smile under her gray curls. “The baron brought Mr. Trilby to entertain me. Wasn’t that kind? Mr. Trilby does these little magic tricks with cards. I think he accompanied the baron two or three times before you visited. Then Mr. Trilby called after you had returned to town, to see if I needed anything. What a kind man to think of me. He brought his sister, too, and continued to call whenever I went down to my cottage. Last summer his sister urged me to remove some of my Harold’s items, so I did not get that bad pang in my heart whenever I saw them. I agreed, and her brother kindly carried them out to the barn while she and I chatted.”

The chat would have allowed Trilby to move about the cottage freely. Had he chanced upon that trunk and pawed through it out of curiosity, or had Lakewood alerted him that a manuscript existed? In the carriage house Trilby could examine its contents at his leisure, and find the manuscript. Perhaps he had taken it to be sure it contained nothing that incriminated Lakewood or himself. He had probably jumped for joy when he found pages that incriminated its writer and no one else.

Amelia reached over and gripped her hand. “I will always be grateful that you came to me that spring. I did not think I wanted anyone around, but your quiet presence helped so much. I have regretted how we grew apart afterward.”

“That was my fault, not yours. Aunt Hortense is much easier to hoodwink. I knew that once you overcame your grief, I would not have nearly as much fun with you as with her.”

Amelia gave her a scolding frown, then laughed. “All is well that turns out well. Since you landed Penthurst after all, who can complain?”

She still ruminated over the discovery about Trilby, and it took a moment for her aunt’s last odd comment to gain her attention. “After all? What do you mean?”

Amelia’s face fell. “Did no one ever tell you? Hortense and I chose not to, because we did not want you sad that you had lost out on a duke. I thought that surely someone else would be unkind and speak of it when you were older, people being what they are.”

“Now that you have spoken of it yourself, perhaps you should explain.”

Amelia launched into a surprising explanation of a pact that Penthurst marry her, made by her mother and Rosalyn when she was born. The future duke was not amused, it turned out, and repudiated the arrangement as soon as he inherited.

“He stood in front of that assembly of well-wishers, and said he would choose his own duchess and that he rejected forthwith any arrangements, pacts, or proxy engagements that may have been, or ever might be, made for him,” Amelia concluded. “That meant you, unfortunately.”

“Of course.”

“No more than fifteen, he was then, but you could already see what he would be. When I learned of your elopement, I thought, well, there you are. Celeste got her way in the end. As did Rosalyn, although I believe she had reconciled herself to her nephew’s not being swayed by that pact.”

“I think so, yes.”

“See how everything turned out well, Lydia? It is enough to restore one’s faith.”

Lydia left soon after that, mulling over the astonishing revelation that her mother had tried to engage her to Penthurst within hours of her birth. How old-fashioned.
Of course
he repudiated the pact. She would have if he had not.

She returned home, to wait and worry and wonder. She tried to stuff her emotions back into her heart, to no avail. Once one acknowledges love, it turns out, it is very difficult to step back into not knowing. She was stuck with it now. If he returned to treating her as he had before that last day in Hampshire, she could just barely live without having her heart broken repeatedly.

When the carriage pulled up in front of the house, she sensed something had changed. The footman who handed her down confirmed it. “His Grace has returned, Madam.”

“When?”

“He rode up an hour ago.”

“How did he— That is, did he look well?”

“He made a joke and flipped me a guinea, so he looked well enough to me, Madam.”

She forced herself to walk sedately up the steps. Once inside the house, however, she ran to the stairs. The whole way up she prayed there would be no strangeness between them. Maybe he would joke with her too, about all those discoveries in Hampshire. He would tease her about including lists of ships in a novel, and tell her that he had used his ducal power to fix everything, and they would fall into bed and she could know the power of loving him at least, even if he only saw her as a troublesome wife he did not mind too much.

Sarah startled when she burst into the apartment.

“Fast, fast,” she ordered. “Take off this bonnet and fix my hair. Find me a nicer dress. I should wash my face too.”

Sarah ran this way and that, trying to do it all at once. Lydia sat at her dressing table, looked with dismay in her looking glass, and pinched her lips and cheeks to draw out more color. “The new red dress, Sarah. No, the dark green one.”

Sarah did not answer. Silence suddenly reigned in the dressing room. She turned to see Sarah standing still with dresses, chemises, and wraps in her arms. Sarah looked at the door to the dressing room.

Lydia turned the other way. Penthurst stood there. He wore no coats and his hair showed damp from washing.

Sarah dropped the garments onto the floor and left. Lydia smiled nervously, and tried to decipher his humor. He did not appear angry, at least, but he did exude a dark aura. She suspected she might not fare as well as the footman.

He came up behind her, bent, and kissed her cheek from behind. “It is good to see you, Lydia.” He stroked her cheek. “It is very red now. Perhaps you pinched too hard.”

More likely that was the blush she felt warming her face. “Did your journey go well?”

He sank onto the settee behind her. She turned around.

“Well enough. You are not to worry. All has been settled. In two days you and I will meet with Mr. Trilby, pay him off, and that will end it.”

She wanted to throw herself on him, weep with gratitude, and beg him to forget any of this had happened. Instead she stayed put. Something about him reminded her of that last day together. Something unspoken hung in the air. “Thank you. If you want to scold me for getting myself into this scrap, I cannot object. I have castigated myself repeatedly for being so gullible and stupid.”

“I do not want to scold you for being gullible. I do want to scold you severely for not coming to me, or at least your brother, for help.”

“I did, in a way. Go to you.”

“I do not mean forcing that wager to raise the money, and you know it. That you did not trust me at first can perhaps be excused. That you did not when he made his last demand cannot be.” He looked at her with considerable annoyance.

“As you said, it was very incriminating. You might have thought—”

“That you willingly made lists of ships to be passed on to others? It would have been nice if you had shown a little faith in my trust of you too. I thought there was more between us now, Lydia. If you did not believe my affection for you would make a difference, you might have known my sense of responsibility for you would.”

She did not know what to say. She knelt on the settee, circled her arms around his neck, and kissed him instead. “I thought I had it settled in Buxton. I did not expect to think of it again for a year. You are correct, however. I should have known you would not think poorly of me, or suspect the worst, or demand I do some kind of penance.”

He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her hard. “You are right on two counts. I would not be so quick to assume the no penance part.”

She kissed his cheek and smiled. “You are joking, of course.”

“No.”

She leaned back so she could see his face. “Why should I do penance when I did nothing wrong? That is not fair.”

“In reparation for all the trouble you have caused me since you came here demanding a draw of the cards, that is why. It is very fair to my thinking, and long overdue.”

She guessed he included their marriage as part of all the trouble. And a few other things. He had cause for annoyance, that was true. “What kind of penance?”

“First, you will ask Rosalyn to help you prepare for your presentation at court as the Duchess of Penthurst. The queen has expressed impatience, so it must be done very soon.”

“I must accept her instruction in this? Please, do not demand this.”

“I do demand it. And you must not only accept it, you must
request
it. Go to her tomorrow and ask her, in the gentle, humble way I know you can, to help you.”

She almost pushed off his lap. It would kill her to do this.

“Second—”

“I think that is quite enough in itself.”

“I do not.” He cupped her chin in his hand and looked in her eyes. “Second, you will give yourself to me as you never have before.”

A happy, sensual sensation coiled in her at his words. “That does not sound like penance.”

“I hope not. But I will still be well paid for all the trouble.”

“Why don’t I agree to this twice, and we leave off the part about Rosalyn.”

“More trouble, Lydia? This is not the day for it.”

Probably not, from the looks of him. He appeared very stern. It excited her. “When should I expect this second penance? After the first one?”

He shook his head. “Now.”

She waited for him to kiss her again, to start. Instead he took her hand and guided her to her feet. “Get undressed.”

He helped with the tapes, but nothing else. He lounged there and watched, his dark intensity making her nervous. She dropped the dress and slid off her chemise. She had donned half-stays for her morning calls. She worked the knot of the lacing, then pulled the laces so she could remove the constricting garment.

He guided her back to his lap. “Leave the hose, I think. Now, do the same for me.”

She straddled him, naked except for her hose, and plucked at his cravat. When it was off, he took it from her and set it aside on the settee, next to her chemise. She went to work on his shirt. All the while her arousal increased. He had barely touched her, yet she squirmed against his lap. She lifted his shirt and pulled it off.

He looked magnificent. She could not resist caressing his shoulders and kissing his chest.

“You will kneel to do the rest,” he said.

As she slipped off his lap a shudder shook her arousal due to his making it a command to be obeyed, not a suggestion. Leaning into his legs, she reached for the buttons on his breeches. He did nothing to help, but just sat there waiting and watching. Again and again her fingers touched his hard erection beneath the fabric. When she finished with the buttons, she pushed all the garments down to release him. He rose enough for her to pull everything down his hips and off his legs.

He neither moved nor gave more commands. On her own initiative she skimmed her fingertips up his shaft. She had never had quite this prospect on it before. She circled her fingers around the base and used her other hand to stroke.

“Yes, Lydia. Like that.” His hand cupped the back of her head. The gentlest pressure urged her to bow. “And like this, if you are willing.”

She realized he wanted a similar intimacy to what he did to her. A moment of shock made her resist that slight push. His hand fell away. She looked at the caresses she gave him. She bowed on her own, and kissed.

He positioned his hands below her breasts and glossed over the tips again and again. An arousal, reckless in intensity, broke in her. She kissed again, then caressed with her tongue. When his voice, quiet and low, asked for more, it seemed an inevitable step to take.

It affected him deeply. It affected her too. The eroticism of the act overwhelmed her senses. The titillation of his caresses created unbearable need. When he stopped her, and lifted her to her feet as he stood, she could hardly keep her balance.

He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to her bed. She looked up at him and raised her arms to accept him into her embrace. He did not join her. Instead he flipped her so she hugged the mattress.

His hands closed on the sides of her hips. “Up. On your knees. Hands on the headboard.”

She took the position he had requested before. He did not lie beneath her this time. Nor did he leave her thus. Instead he took her left arm and with quick ties of his cravat, bound her wrist to the bedpost.

He went to work on her other wrist with her chemise.

She tested the soft shackles. She could get free if she really wanted to. She decided she did not. The feeling of vulnerability aroused her.

“Is this the penance?” she asked, astonished at how her arms stretched and she hung from the cloth tethered to the posts. It reminded her of— “You do not intend to whip me, do you?”

“No. Inflicting pain creates a crude pleasure. Power, on the other hand—” He moved her knees back and pushed them apart. Now she really did hang from those cloth ties, her arms and body forming a long, slow curve. She stopped trying to fight the effect. She relaxed, and let the bindings support her.

She felt him behind her. She closed her eyes and waited, with an impatience that left her trembling.