The Hazards Of Hunting A Duke (21 page)

Ava shook her head. “No,” she said quietly.

“I think we both understand one another and what we’ve gained by this marriage, do we not?” She nodded.

“But,” he said, reaching for the ribbon of her sash, his fingers possessively brushing her breast as he did, “

I rather imagine that should not preclude us from enjoying it.” He lifted a darkly glittering gaze to hers. “ Particularly the private privileges that come with being husband and wife,” he added quietly as he tugged lightly at the ribbon.

Ava tried to smile, but she could scarcely even swallow. “Yes,” was all she could manage.

He smiled then, his eyes creasing at the corners. “Drink,” he said, nodding to her whiskey.

She looked at the tot, lifted it to her lips, closed her eyes and drank, and waited for the inevitable burn. Beside her, Middleton chuckled.

“You might find it more to your liking if you sipped.”

“I shall never find whiskey to my liking, sir,” she said hoarsely, and opened her eyes.

He leaned forward, poured a little more into her glass. “Try to sip,” he advised, and held up his tot, clinking it against hers. “To many happy years.”

“To many happy years,” she echoed, and sipped the whiskey. It burned her lips, her tongue, and her throat. No, she decided, it was most decidedly better to swallow it whole than sip.

Middleton must have agreed, for he tossed his back.

Ava drank the contents of her tot . When she finished gasping for breath, and felt the calming effects of it begin to seep warm and thick into her limbs, she smiled a little crookedly. “Very nice.”

He casually took the tot from her hands and put it aside. “I’ve not had time to personally show you about. Shall I give you a tour of the abbey?”

“I should like that very much.”

Middleton took her firmly in hand, and Ava liked that —she liked the feeling of belonging with him. Perhaps the awkward moment on the drive had been an aberration, th e result of fatigue. Perhaps

everything would be very nice between them.

Perhaps her nerves, now assuaged by the whiskey, would settle down.

But if anything, they grew worse. Their tour took more than an hour. Middleton pointed out the historical facets and where the monks had once lived, their cells now converted to servants’ quarters. He showed

her the west drawing room, which had once been a chapel, and the various wings and rooms and

artwork that had been added through the centuries. Too nervous to focus on the art and architecture of

the grand old abbey, Ava asked few questions about his revered family’s history, and he told her very little.

In fact, Middleton became less talkative as the tour wore on. He just kept looking at her in a way that

made her feel incredibly exposed. Her skin tingled with the intensity of his gaze, and Ava could scarcely think—her trepidation at what was to come g rowing more acute by the hour.

By the time they had returned to the salon, Dawson was waiting to take them in to dinner.

The smaller family dining room was a size that most would consider to be a formal dining room, large enough to seat two dozen. At the far end of the table, two place settings had been arranged. Middleton’

s, at the head of the table, and Ava’s, to his right. Two footmen stood silently next to a large buffet, on top of which were six silver -domed platters.

Dawson held the chair out for her; Ava slid into it self-consciously. As accustomed as she was to formal dining, this seemed far more formal, and bigger. But Middleton gave her a smile and a slight wink as he

took his seat. “A lot of pomp and circumstance to eat one fat hen, isn’t it?”

She smiled gratefully at his attempt to put her at ease, but as Dawson poured wine, her nerves felt as if

they were all but exposed, hovering just beneath the surface of her skin, ready to explode.

She drank the wine and pushed her food around, her appet ite completely crushed under her anxiety.

Middleton, however, didn’t seem to be bothered. He made small talk as he ate, asked her about the sorts of things that amused her.

“I’m not certain I know what you mean.”

“What sorts of things do you like to do? Besides your charitable work, of course,” he added with a devilish smile.

“Oh. Well. I suppose I like to read —” “What do you read?”

“Novels,” she said. “Popular novels, particularly.”

“Ah. Stories of love and lust,” he said, his gaze dipping to her lips as he reached for his wineglass.

“And the daily newspapers,” she added quickly. “I particularly enjoy the on dits. Phoebe and I make a game of out of it.”

“The sort of game that suppos es which gentleman is in which lady’s bed?” he asked, idly watching her.

Ava didn’t answer—her face burned with the truth.

“Or perhaps you enjoy another sort of game,” he suggested, his voice dropping to a low pitch. “ Wondering which gentleman you wo uld like to find in your bed?”

“Of course not,” she said instantly.

Middleton smiled at her obvious lie but nodded gallantly. “I beg your pardon, madam. I did not know you, your sister, and your cousin were as chaste as that.”

“We…” Her voice trailed of f, and she cast her gaze to her plate. She tried to think of something witty and clever to say to her husband, but nothing came to her.

He smiled and picked up his fork. “What else amuses you?”

“Music,” she said. “I like the pianoforte, although I play i t wretchedly. Greer is the talented one among

us. And I like dogs, I think. Not cats, especially, for they are rather aloof. But I enjoy seeing the dogs in

the park. They seem friendly and exceedingly loyal. And, oh yes, I do enjoy a good walkabout.” “You shall have plenty of room to roam at Broderick Abbey.”

She tried to picture herself walking around the grounds of Broderick Abbey, the lady of the manor, and

the image brought a smile to her face. How absurd! Ava Fairchild, a marchioness!

“There we are, at last—a lovely smile,” he said, smiling, too. “What amuses you at this moment?” “The idea that I should be a marchioness. Or a duchess, for that matter.”

“I suspect you will be a very good one. I have all faith.”

“Your faith in me is very much appreciated, but very much undeserved.” Before he could politely argue, she asked, “What amuses you, my lord?”

“Hmm,” he mused, his brow wrinkled with thought. “I suppose horses rather than dogs, although I had a dog as a la d and I was quite fond of him. Hunting rather than walking. I do enjoy music. And reading, although I must confess I have never read a popular novel of lust and love,” he added with a sly smile. “ Perhaps we might indulge in one together.”

Ava pretended to study her wineglass. “What was your dog’s name?” she asked, avoiding any mention

of lust or love.

“His name?” He grinned. “Doogie.” Ava laughed.

“What?”

“That is a wretched name for a dog.”

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, feigning offense. “It is a per fectly suitable name for a cur!”

“It is perfectly suitable for a stableboy. Not a dog!”

“And who are you, madam, to declare what is a suitable dog’s name?” he teased her. “I will have you

know that I spent hours determining the perfect name for him. Now, then, to be fair, you must tell me the

name of your childhood pet.”

“I did not have a dog, I had a canary,” Ava informed him. “And as there were three of us, the naming was not done entirely on my own.”

“Very well, what did the three of you name you r pet canary?”

“Buttermilk,” Ava said, and smiled, pleased that he should laugh so roundly at that.

He asked about her childhood —Bingley Hall, the move to London after her father died and her mother remarried. She told him about her debut into society, and her presentation at court, and how she had accidentally spilled wine on the prince regent’s velvet shoe at the ball afterward.

She talked at length about her mother. It felt good to talk about her; it helped to lessen her anxiety somewhat. And it was good to speak of her to someone other than Phoebe and Greer, to someone who

had not known how lovely sh e was so that Ava could say it aloud. She even spoke of herself, and of

Phoebe and Greer, too, of Greer’s foray into Wales and Phoebe’s despair that she’d been abandoned. “We shall send for her once you are with child,” he said instantly.

A flood of heat invaded her face, and Ava glanced down at her lap, feeling butterflies at the mere mention

of a child in her womb. All the anxiety she had managed to push down suddenly rose up again. “Thank you. It would be good to have her with me.”

He paused in his dining and looked at her. “Is something wrong?” She shook her head.

He reached for her hand, covered it with his and held it for a moment. “Rest east, Lady Middleton,” he said at last. “There are greater things in life to fear.”

“I hardly fear children, my lo rd.”

He smiled a little lopsidedly. “I was hardly referring to children.”

Dear God. She could feel her heart thumping in her chest as he gazed at her, his eyes roaming her face, dipping to her décolletage, which she knew very well to be quite revealing, and then up again, lingering on

her lips before giving her a roguish smile and letting go of her hand.

Ava’s insides churned with anticipation and fear all at once. Yet somehow, she made herself pick up her fork. “And what of your childhood, sir?” she ask ed. “Where was it spent?”

He answered vaguely. His childhood, he said, was rather dull, spent in boarding schools and in Europe.

His house in London was bought from his uncle, who was now deceased. Broderick Abbey was his seat, and while he didn’t spend a s much time here, he rather liked it here, and was trying to institute some agricultural changes that would earn a better yield from the land.

“And your father?”

He glanced up from his plate and regarded her suspiciously. “What of him?” The chill in his voice startled her. “You haven’t mentioned him.”

“Why would I?”

Why? After the interview in his father’s study, and the obvious animosity between father and son, he

would ask why? Ava blinked. “I don’t know…he just seemed so…displeased…about us,” she reminded him.

Middleton looked at his plate. “I wouldn’t bore you with the unpleasant history of my relationship with my father. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Of course I would,” she retorted, ruffled by his dismissive response.

But Middleton sighed and gave her a stern look she’d never seen from him before now.

“All right, then, here you are, Lady Middleton. He is generally displeased because I am not, nor have I ever been, the

son he wanted. He considers me feckless and undeserving, for we are not cut of the same cloth, he and I.

”

“But how is that—”

“If you wouldn’t mind, it is really neither here nor there,” he said, cutting her off. “I’ve little enough to do with him as it is and I’d rather not discuss it.” With that, he looked at Dawson. “You may clear these

things away. Lady Middleton and I would retire now.”

Dawson and the footmen instantly began moving. But Ava, startled by his quick decision and his black look, didn’t move. Jared came to his feet and walked around to Ava’s chair.

He put his hands on her

shoulders and leaned down, so that his lips were against her ear. “You look as if you are expected in the gallows, madam.” He straightened up, pulled her chair ba ck, and helped Ava to her feet. Then he took

up the wine and the two glasses they had drunk from and nodded to the door. “To the gallows, then.”

Ava stumbled slightly, but he caught her with his hand. “Relax,” he said low and put a steadying hand on

her back. Out they went, walking silently down the carpeted corridor, then up the stairs.

Jared paused at

the landing as she gathered her skirts in one hand. He took her hand in his and led her purposefully to the

end of the hallway, past beeswax candles castin g eerie light on silk-covered walls, past consoles boasting hothouse flowers, past closed doors and two chambermaids standing politely with their backs to the wall

as the master and his wife passed.

When they reached a certain door, Jared’s hand dropped f rom her waist and he turned the crystal knob, throwing it open, and then, standing behind Ava, he gave her a gentle push inside.

The room was similar to hers, only larger. It was painted the blue color of a spring sky, the carpet

Oriental and plush and the furniture thickly padded and covered in leather. There was a dresser, atop which were the accoutrements of a man —a pair of gloves, a discarded neckcloth, a small purse, and a heavy silver candelabrum. She could see into the dress ing room, too, where there was a basin, with a leather strop and razor hanging nearby.

And then, of course, there was the canopied bed. It was draped in dark green velvet, the bed covering brocade and embroidered with dark green and gold leaves. The canop y was hand painted, rising tall on mahogany posters at the four corners, topped with gold pineapples. A fire burned brightly at the hearth, and someone had turned down the bed for his lordship.

The boots he’d worn to his wedding were at the hearth, a silk dressing gown was draped over the back

of a wingback chair. At the windows, gold and dark green drapes had been pulled to keep out the morning light.

Ava clasped her hands to her belly and glanced up at the ceiling frieze —papier-mâché ropes slung from urn to urn, a circle of pineapples in the middle.

She heard the door close and the snap of the lock and turned around. Middleton had put down the wine

and the glasses and was pulling the pin free of his neckcloth, which he placed on the dresser. She felt panicked, watching him.

He regarded her warily as he yanked the neckcloth free and tossed it aside, followed by his collar. “I agreed to marry a woman who laughed easily,” he said as he shrugged out of his coat. “But, madam, since our vows were taken, yo u have turned into a nervous little ninny.”

He pulled open his shirt, and Ava caught a glimpse of the crisp hair that covered his chest. His dark hair was almost to his shoulder, his hazel eyes glinting dangerously, his face impossibly handsome. She