The Seduction of a Duke (11 page)

Once Mary had untied all the cumbersome layers of smooth satin and stiff petticoats and had put them away, she slipped a lacy concoction over Fran’s head, allowing the sheer fabric to settle over her unbound body.

“What is this?” Her eyes widened, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“It’s a gift from your
maman
.” Mary smiled. “Isn’t it lovely? She said she had it commissioned in Paris when you were there last April. The pattern is so elegant and fragile.”

Fran glanced at her reflection in the mirror, then gulped. The peignoir set was more illusion of fabric than the actual item. Every natural curve of her body was clearly visible, unbound and unrestrained. The creamy lace teased the eye with its strategically placed filigree. Certainly the garment was never designed to withstand a solitary night’s slumber. She imagined it would tear indiscriminately with the slightest touch. Perhaps that’s the purpose, a mischievous voice whispered in her head. A warmth spread across her chest that by no means could be attributed to the open-weaved lace.

“Is there not a wrapper?” Fran asked, a tremble in her voice. “This could hardly be considered decent.”

Mary smiled, but kept her opinions to herself. She held a barely opaque robe designed more to tease than to cover. Suddenly the prospect of what was to happen, of what was necessary to happen for her to return back to her home in the shortest period of time, brought a cold shiver.

A knock at the adjoining door caused Fran’s breath to catch and her anxieties to peak.

“Mary, whatever happens—don’t leave me alone with that man,” Fran pleaded. Before Mary could reply, the door opened.

He entered her bedchamber unbidden, dressed in loose trousers and a silk robe. Her gaze was drawn to the enticing intersection of the lapels where a hint of curling black hair teased the eye. She had seen bare-chested workmen before in her travels throughout Europe. Somehow, that a gentleman—that her husband—would be similarly molded seemed primitive, uncivilized, yet enticing in a fundamental forbidden way.

Mary, hairbrush in hand, quickly bobbed into a curtsy, while Fran remained seated in an effort to corral her fears.
Never let another know your true thoughts,
her mother’s words counseled. Fran maintained a calm visage as her mother had taught, while internally she gasped and shrank in fear.

“Leave us,” the Duke said. Mary returned the hairbrush to the dressing table then crossed the room. After she had passed the Duke, she turned at the door and glanced back at her mistress, an apologetic lift to her brow.

“Good night, Miss Winthrop.” She silently closed the door behind her.

Traitor, Fran thought, envious of her maid’s freedom. If only she could just leave rather than face the ravaging her mother had assured her would occur on her wedding night.

Bedford glanced over his shoulder and frowned, then turned his attentions toward her. “How is my . . . Lady Liberty . . . this evening?”

He started walking toward her. She stood, choosing to face her challenger on two feet rather than trapped in a chair. Her back ramrod straight, her shoulders back, her head held high in a regal disdain, it was posture to which she had been groomed since her first steps. The effect intimidated most, but seemed to have little effect on him. He hesitated a moment, then continued in his advance. His eyes traveled the length of her before an appreciative smile tilted his lips.

Heavens! In her haste to stand, she’d forgotten about the barely there peignoir. She fought the telltale heat that threatened to blossom on her cheeks. He may ravage her as she understood a new husband was honor bound to do, but he didn’t need to know of her embarrassment.

“I thought you might have a certain natural reluctance about tonight,” he said, his deep voice setting her skin to tingle. He stepped behind her. She stiffened, wishing he would stay where she could see him. The bristles of a hairbrush touched the crown of her head. She flinched.

“But I’m pleased to see I’m mistaken.”

Belatedly, she thought to pull the flimsy wrapper tighter across her body. From his close proximity, he probably could tell her heart fearfully hammered in her chest. One minute she wished he’d just do the deed and be done with her, the next she hoped to earn a small reprieve.

“I don’t love you,” she said, as the brush gently glided through her hair.

“I don’t suppose you do. You hardly know enough about me to like, much less love.” His hand soothed the curtain of hair away from her face, his knuckles brushed her cheek in an oddly intimate gesture. Mary had brushed her hair a thousand times, but never had the act held such an intimate effect.

“I assure you,” he said. “Love has little to do with marriage. I should know, I’ve been in one loveless marriage already.”

“You’re married?” She twisted her head to the side, but still could not see him. “How can that be?”

“My wife died years ago. Didn’t your mother tell you I was a widower? Perhaps not. It hardly matters when one is in need of a title”—he hesitated—“and a husband.”

“I have no interest in your title, sir,” The only title she’d ever longed for was that of barrister’s wife. That fantasy was now an impossibility. “That was my mother’s dream for me, never my own.”

“Is that why you planned that little diversion the night of our engagement? To thwart your mother’s plans?”

That had been the second time he had referred to their initial meeting. What did it matter now? Her plan had failed. “You hid your identity as well as I recall. Why did you do that?”

“I was pursued as a simple marquess, but once I ascended to the title of Duke of Bedford, I find I am a highly sought trophy among marriage-minded females. I thought to escape the competition just once before the knot was tied. Might I remind you, my dear, that you won the prize sought by many.”

“Hmph. A prize I did not want.”

“We all must make sacrifices to secure our dreams.” She heard the smile in his voice. “I promise to provide the life of privilege and luxury most women dream about in exchange for the funds to make it so.”

“A life of luxury holds no interest for me,” Fran replied. “My dream was to marry another, then live a quiet life in a small house in New York. Can my father’s funds make that wish yet come true?”

“Another?”

The soothing motion of the hairbrush hesitated before the silver handle clattered on the vanity tray. He stepped around to face her, a smug expression teasing his lips. “I suspected as much. But you do understand that now that you are my wife, there will be no others. You will leave that possibility behind as surely as you have left your parents’ home.”

He placed his hand on her shoulder and slowly drifted down her arm. His fingertips surprised her with their hard strength. Randolph’s touch hadn’t that tautness, that sense of purpose. The contrast caused a tremor near her spine. She briefly closed her eyes to prevent him from seeing the impact of his touch, but he was watching her so closely even that simple reaction was noted.

“And you, Your Grace?” She marshaled a challenge. “Am I to understand that similar restrictions apply to your . . . activities?”

“Would you care?” He smiled. “You’ve already indicated you house no affection for me.”

Strangely, she did care. She thought of the hurt we’d witnessed on her mother’s face when rumors flourished about her father’s relationship with her tutor. She thought of the hurt that would be imposed on her children, if Bedford harbored affection for another.

He lifted his hand from the inside of her elbow and raised it to the side of her face, stroking the curve of her cheek. He stood so close, she could sense more than feel the scrape of her breasts against his bare chest. To her embarrassment, her breasts sought that very contact as her nipples pushed through the tiny openings in the lace. She prayed he wouldn’t notice.

But he did. He glanced down. The fingers that stoked the line of her chin paused. The tiny lines at the corners of his eyes deepened.

“I won’t deny that I’ve had a dalliance or two in my past. I am a man with a decided appetite. However, if my eyes don’t deceive me, I believe you may have appetites of your own.”

He placed his full palm on her breast, as if to measure her fullness like a farmer testing the ripeness of fruit. She tried to stifle her gasp to no avail. Her knees threatened to buckle, but she locked them tight.

“But from this day forth, I shall be the only one to satisfy your hunger. I will know every curve, every taste, every nuance of your flesh. I will possess every inch of you. I will bury myself deep within your luscious womb till you cry out for release. You will welcome me whenever I wish as is your wifely duty, and I shall endeavor to make it a welcome experience. Is that understood? You have bought a title, a husband, and a father for your . . . for our children, but I will never be cuckolded. From this night forth, there will be no other. Resign yourself to it.”

His gaze bored into her. Whatever he saw in her eyes seemed to dilute the desire she had read in his face. He stepped back, his glance slid down her body to rest near her midsection. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me before we formally begin our lives as husband and wife? Any . . . developments of which I should be aware?”

“No, Your Grace.” She shifted uncomfortably, tempted to tell him how her insides melted like beeswax beneath his gaze. His words had unleashed a delicious quivering near her womb. She studied his mouth—firm lips, expressive lips, demanding lips. How would they feel pressed against her neck, her shoulders, and below? She tried unsuccessfully to repress a shudder of anticipation.

He noticed that as well.

“I suppose in many ways we are still strangers, and perhaps your woman’s sensibilities aren’t prepared to give yourself to someone so unknown to you.” The hand that had so recently tested her breast slipped behind his back, giving him the air of a dictator, one without the benefit of a uniform.

“I shall give you this night. Make of it what you may. Tomorrow, we shall begin our journey as husband and wife and return to our new home.”

She thought he might kiss her. His gaze appeared fixed on her lips and his upper arm twitched as if it was difficult to keep his hand hidden. She wanted that kiss, yearned for that bit of tenderness after the hard words he had spoken.

He leaned toward her and she offered him her lips. He pressed his lips to her forehead.

“Good night, wife.”

Then he turned and left.

Fran sank back on the chair, trembling like a flower petal beneath a honeybee’s dance. Conflicting emotions of relief and disappointment warred within. If his words were to be believed, he wouldn’t be demanding her physical offering this evening as had been expected. While this loosened the tight grip of anxiety in her stomach, another worry quickly replaced it. Why? Why wasn’t he demanding that which she understood was to be expected?

Not that she particularly wanted to be ravaged, but the act was necessary if she were to produce an heir and thus return to her home soil. Common knowledge suggested a woman only had to be alone in a room with a man for him to take advantage. Wasn’t that why her mother insisted those old biddy chaper ones be present whenever a man paid her attention?

Well, there were no biddies in the room and she was still very much virginal. Was something wrong with her? Did those gossips that called her Frosty Franny behind her back know something that she was not privy to? They’d whispered that speaking with her was akin to feeling a cold nor’easter shiver their bones. She’d always discredited such nonsense in the past, but what if she did somehow exude a chill wind? A jolt of realization stabbed at her heart. What if that was the reason Randolph had not made advances?

The problem had never been with Randolph; it had been her all along. She apparently lacked that essential quality that other woman had in abundance. That inviting quality that attracted strangers to take notice, that warm glow that made them comfortable, that gentle encouragement that made the women open to ravishment—those are the qualities she needed if she ever hoped to become pregnant.

Unfortunately, those were the sort of qualities that her father’s money couldn’t buy. One couldn’t go into Madame Du bonnets’s establishment and request a veil of enticement to be added to a bonnet, or a sprig of invitation to bait one’s bustle. Indeed, if it was a matter of attire, this lacy peignoir would surely have done the trick. No, it had to be an inherent quality, something one was born with, or learned from one’s peers.

If that was only possible. If nothing else, she had always been an apt student. Hadn’t Madame Aglionby always complimented her on her ability to assimilate languages? Madame Aglionby . . .

Lost in thought, Fran barely heard the knock on her door. She glanced at the connecting door to her husband’s quarters, but the knock repeated at the main entrance to the room. She called out permission to enter. Mary appeared with a heavy volume.

“I was instructed that you required this volume this evening.”

Exasperated, she sighed. This was no doubt the Duke’s doing, as were Mary’s sad eyes. Spending one’s wedding night alone with a book hardly fit her vision of a fairy tale princess. Especially this boring old tome. Another book came to mind.

“Mary, do you recall the set of books I set aside for the transatlantic passing?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve kept them separate so they wouldn’t be placed in the ship’s hull as you requested.”

“I’m interested in the one I picked up in Paris, do you recall? Small, black, without a title?”

“The one tied with a ribbon and hidden in your bureau?”

Mary reddened slightly under Fran’s prolonged glance. “Yes, that’s the one. Is it close by? Could you retrieve it yet this evening?”

“Yes, Your . . . ma’am.” Mary started to turn toward the door, then stopped. A frown worked at the corners of her eyes. “I hadn’t thought you’d be needing me this evening, this being your wedding night and all. My mother had planned a farewell gathering as she won’t be seeing me again for a while . . . I was wondering . . .”