The Seduction of a Duke (12 page)

Fran sighed, trying to avoid the look of pity on Mary’s face. She glanced about the room. “After you’ve found the book for me you’re free to enjoy the rest of the evening on your own. Just be sure you don’t miss the ferry. I can’t imagine surviving the trip without you.”

Mary rewarded her with a big smile. “I’ll be right back, Miss Winthrop.”

MY DEAREST RANDOLPH . . .

She penned the words on softly scented stationery while waiting for Mary’s return with the journal. The next lines were most difficult. Though she longed to tell him how much she wished he were the man exchanging vows with her at Trinity Church, she could not properly form the words. Would such a declaration change anything?

In truth, she had begun to suspect that it wasn’t love for Randolph as much as fear of marriage to Bedford that caused her such angst. When Randolph hadn’t replied to her letters, she’d noted her ardor had significantly cooled. Still, he had been her best chance for freedom at the time, and a far more familiar suitor than Bedford. She would have been content with Randolph, but he had chosen another. What was done, was done.

Opting for a more formal reply than the salutation indicated, she expressed good wishes for Randolph and his new wife, as she was sure they would have extended the same to her had they been present today. She hesitated over thanking him for the pin. A new wife might not approve of such an intimate gift to a former acquaintance. She kept the references vague and uncertain in case he might share the letter with his wife.

Mary knocked on the door, then entered. Fran placed the freshly penned letter aside to dry before accepting the leather-bound journal from Mary. So much had changed since she discussed the prospect of marriage with Madame Aglionby. In the space of a few months, she felt she had aged several years. How naïve she’d been to think she could choose her own husband. Sadness pulled at her throat.

She ran her fingers over the aged cover of the courtesan’s journal. Would it have made a difference? Perhaps if she’d read it earlier and gleaned its nuggets of wisdom and if Ran dolf hadn’t left so suddenly for Germany, she’d be Mrs. Randolph Stockwell and not the Duchess of Bedford.

However, reflection on what could have been would offer no assistance on her current dilemma. Best to set the past aside and move forward with the future.

She placed the book in the center of the writing desk, secured the top on her ink bottle, then placed her writing implements aside for Mary to pack in the morning. After she adjusted the oil lamp to assist reading, she tenderly opened the cover and bent her head to study the courtesan’s secrets of seduction.

 

 

SHE READ FOR AT LEAST AN HOUR, ENTHRALLED WITH the trials of Bridget, the name she assigned to the lone initial. Bridget appeared to be an educated woman abused by a deceitful lover, then abandoned by an uncaring society. Without family or friends to give her shelter, she was cast to the streets of Paris to survive, until the highly paid and exotic courtesan Fatima brought her to Folly’s Desire, a house of ill repute.

Fran’s eyelids grew heavy as she turned page after page, reading the details of life in that other world, the one never discussed. Some of the events candidly discussed in the pages shocked her to say the least. She wished she had someone with whom to confirm the accuracy.

Of course she had been told from her earliest memories that there were two types of people: those with the means and refinement to move amongst high society, and those without sufficient funds and culture to do so. From reading the journal, it appeared that division among ladies of pleasure existed with similar lines of distinction. There were those that were groomed to be companions of the elite and those that satisfied the more common man.

Bridget obviously could read and write. That, more so than beauty, seemed to satisfy a certain criteria established for women placed in the former division.

Perhaps that explained the kinship Fran began to feel with the journal’s author. Society pretended that women like Bridget chose that path of survival due to some basic evil or spiritual failing at heart, but Fran wondered if that were true. Had she been placed in a similar plight without means or family to provide the basic necessities, would she have eventually turned to a house of pleasure? And once there, wouldn’t she be placed in a capacity to associate with well-bred men of society based on her own education and knowledge?

She thought about her father and the whispered rumors she’d pretended not to hear about his passionate pursuits outside of the home. Would her father frequent such a place as the one Bridget described in the journal?

The question made the reading more personal, more immediate, and she found herself forgetting her purpose for studying the journal in the first place. Time passed and her eyes burned from a combination of fatigue and the smoke of the lamp. She had decided to read one more page, and there she found sudden insight. She reread the passage to be sure.

A sudden enlightenment jarred Fran. It all made sense. A woman’s breasts were a defining characteristic of the feminine gender. Emphasis therefore on the presentation of a woman’s chest only served to remind men that one was a woman, and thus a suitable object of lust. Did not her bees do something similar? When the male bees were presented with a sight of the queen’s enlarged abdomen, they began a mating ritual that ensured the continuation of the hive. The insight pushed her back in the chair. Why hadn’t she thought about this presentation aspect before?

Although her objective differed slightly from that of Bridget, the process should be similar. She would need to prominently display her own sugary and thus entice the Duke to do all that was necessary to produce a child. Otherwise she’d be doomed to spend the rest of her days in a world not of her choosing.

She stood, the small of her back welcoming the change of position, then moved before the full-length mirror. Dressmak ers and salesclerks had often lavished praise upon her girlish figure and graceful beauty, but she had always suspected that was a ploy to encourage additional spending for items she just didn’t need. She couldn’t recall ever having objectively examined her own form before. There had never been a need.

In the soft yellowish light of the gas jets, she tried to see her body as another might view it. She had smallish breasts, she decided. The mounds were sufficient enough to distinguish her from a boy, but she doubted anyone would express more than a passing interest in them. They certainly were not the buxom proportions of Phoebe Kravitz. A smile crept to her lips. She recalled earlier observing crumbs of white wedding cake on the rose silk covering Phoebe’s ample bosom.

However, as she studied her own reflection in the mirror, she realized that any crumb she might have dropped would undoubtedly fall straight to the floor. Was this the reason the Duke had abandoned her on her wedding night? Were her bosoms insufficient to entice men? They certainly were in comparison to Phoebe Kravitz.

Fran turned from side to side, her sudden enlightenment causing her to reassess any cruel notions previously thought about her mother’s friend’s daughter.

Perhaps Phoebe was trying to implore her own form of a sugary temptation within the confinements of society fashion. Perhaps she was inviting men to feast at her bosom. Would the Duke like that? She giggled, envisioning her stalwart, resolute Duke bent in half in an attempt to reach the appetizers offered by the far shorter Phoebe Kravitz.

What began as a silly conjecture quickly turned into something else entirely. She imagined the Duke nuzzling her own chest. His lips feasting on her skin, laving at her nipples—an action mentioned in the courtesan’s journal. A delicious tremor, emanating from that very spot, shivered through her. Dear heavens, did men truly do that?

She couldn’t reconcile Randolph to such an image, but the Duke—she shuddered—she wouldn’t put anything so base, so common, so . . . physical . . . past him. The lazy shuttering of his eyelids and the subtle twitch to his lips made her think that he might even enjoy such an activity. A sudden heat washed through her. Would she? She picked up the white lacy fan designed to accompany her wedding dress and fluttered up a current that pushed her hair away from her face.

“Don’t be silly,” she scolded herself. The man is so arrogant he probably included instructions in the marriage contract that his bride’s head must never be higher than his own. Should such a man deign to eat crumbs, it would only be with a silver spoon. Hah! Again, she was being silly. His grace would never settle for crumbs. He’d insist her chest support an entire meal.

She laughed at the mental image, then glanced at the mirror. The laughter died in her throat. Her paltry denizens would never do.

If the journal was correct in its suggestion that men are drawn to women with obvious feminine attributes, she would have to be a bit more confrontational to attract the Duke’s attention to that area of her anatomy. She returned to the desk to scan the journal’s pages, hoping to find suggestions on how to best accomplish that.

 

 

HE WAS AN IDIOT. HE WAS A FOOL. WILLIAM TOSSED amid the sheets in a large and painfully lonely bed. He had every right to claim her, and he very nearly had done precisely that. Any doubt that she was virginal disappeared the moment he saw her in that lacy bit of nothing. She was the very advertisement of carnal pleasure. Oh, what his brother could do with that temptress as a model. The thought made him punch his pillow into submission.

Then she pulled that wispy garment so tight across her curves in feigned modesty, though he suspected it was to emphasize her feminine form, and thus fan his desire to consummate the marriage.

These Americans were a strange lot. Why couldn’t she just tell him she was with child? She had to know that her secret could not remain so for long.

A disturbing thought intervened. Had his father’s reputation for a short temper traveled all the way to America? Did she fear that once he ascertained that she was not a virgin he would seek revenge in some manner?

If she would just admit to any babies already breeding in her womb, then he’d happily share with her the more pleasurable aspects of marriage. If only he could trust her to answer him honestly if he were to pose the question.

No. Abstinence was better. The issue of paternity was too important to live with uncertainty. He had just assumed not consummating the marriage would be easier than it was proving to be. He had thought they could spend the evening getting to know one another, sharing confidences, small pleasures. But from the moment he had entered her room, her proud arrogance, wrapped in that enticing lascivious concoction, pulled at him like a champion yearling. She had a defiance that challenged, and a body that begged to be touched. His cock had sprung to attention the moment she flaunted herself for his viewing. She was his for the handling, lawfully, albeit unwillingly, wed.

Damnation. He should have been the first. Her mother was right. The girl had been groomed for royalty. The Queen herself could not have been more stiff-necked. With a body made for a man’s pleasure—his groin tightened—he should have been the first.

She hadn’t even flinched at his mention of her child and need for safety. It was conclusive proof, to be sure. Why else would such a tantalizing piece still be on the market? He shook his head. These Americans . . . where was their sense of morality?

He glanced toward her room, noticing the soft glow of a gas lamp beneath the door. At least she seemed to be taking his suggestion to study the family lineages. The book contained well over two hundred families she would be expected to know. The poor chit. Her father’s money would never buy her acceptance into the higher circles of society. But if she studied hard and showed proper deference, he imagined the ton would tolerate her. That should be enough. After all, she would be in England and permitted entrance to the grandest soirees. What more could a woman want?