An Ideal Duchess (13 page)

             
“I certainly won’t tell—will you?”

             
Amanda looked up at him, and her expression shifted to a pained wariness as her arms loosened from around his neck. “You may let me down now, Your Grace.”

             
“Of course,” He released his hold on her and she slid to the ground. “My apologies.”

             
He took a step back just as Warfield came forward, but Amanda tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Oughtn’t we to get back to the pit? I don’t want the clambake to burn.”

             
Bron couldn’t suppress the urge to smile coldly at Warfield as he and Amanda made their way across the beach and back up the cliff side to the fire pit. He retrieved the stick and nudged the tarp from the pit, which had cooled in the interim, leaving a subtle warm glow. The hot stones sizzled from the droplets of water that shook from the tarp, and he breathed deeply of the surprisingly delectable scents emanating from the seaweed-covered bundles of clams, lobster, mussels, and quahogs. The fragrance shifted to a subtle sweet rose as Amanda came to stand beside him, and he looked over at her as she caught her loosened hair in her fist and began to twist it at her nape.

             
“Don’t,” He murmured, touching the hand holding her hair. “It’s lovely this way.”             

             
“It isn’t proper,” She frowned slightly.

             
“Damn proper,” He said fiercely, and then laughed softly, mockingly, at himself. “You make me want to spout poetry when I look at you, but I’ve never been the romantic type and the right words frequently fail me.”

             
The wariness crept back into her eyes, and he brushed her fingers across her cheekbones and then her mouth. She closed her eyes, as though anticipating his kiss, but he paused to grimace over his impulsive words.
What the devil was he on about?
He flushed hotly in embarrassment over how stupid he must sound and look. His pursuit of Amanda Vandewater wasn’t supposed to be romantic or sentimental or any of that claptrap the penny dreadfuls went on about.

             
But every time he touched her, he seemed to fall into the illusion that there was supposed to be something more, that there
should
be something more. Her eyes fluttered open in the silence, and he stared down at her upturned face, the words that could end or begin his reasons for coming to Newport hovering on the tip of his tongue. He hesitated, his breath shallow and strained as he thought about the implications of kissing her.
Ah hell
, he thought, and did it.

*          *          *

              His mouth was warm and she could almost taste the moonlight and salt of the sea on his lips. She waited for him to take the lead, embarrassed that for all of her waywardness, she had never allowed herself to be kissed. She had had many opportunities—countless opportunities, she amended—but had never felt any desire to accept the sloppy, awkward pawing of German princelings and ‘varsity players. But Bron, His Grace the Duke of Malvern, infuriated her, confused her, and bothered her, and she was drawn to the challenge of cracking him open and seeing of what he was made.

             
She gasped when he slanted his lips over hers, and froze in surprise with the first warm, textured sweep of his tongue inside her mouth. The pressure of his fingers on her face was insistent, tilting her head up, and she obliged, sliding her hands around his neck and curling her fingers into his hair.
This
, she shivered feverishly against his mouth, luxuriating in the wet, tingling, slowness of his kiss;
this
was why ladies were warned against spending time alone with a gentleman. Who knew the simple meeting of lips could be so carnally delicious and frightening in its intensity at the same time?

             
A sudden gust of strong wind whipped and dashed the ocean against the rocks, spraying over them, and he raised his mouth from her on a ragged breath. She moaned in disappointment, digging her fingers deeper into his hair in a wordless demand to continue. Her lips curved in triumph at the curse he murmured before swiftly giving in to her desire. This time, however, he was not at all gentle, lips moving forcefully up and over her own lips, his tongue almost lashing at her tongue, his grip on her face as unyielding and commanding as her grip on him. It felt as though he were inhaling everything she had in her, only for her to draw it back, accompanied by some of himself with it.

New York, October 1903

              “Yes,”

             
Amanda said to her reflection. “YES. Yes! Yees. Yesss.”             

             
Why were the simplest words the most difficult to speak?
Her reflection was silent, offering no advice or succor from the sudden attack of panic coursing through her veins. What had seemed intriguing and challenging two months ago was now the source of dismay, for what did she truly know about Auberon Townsend, tenth Duke of Malvern, Marquess of Rodborough, Earl of Bledington, Baron Cirencester, etc and the life she was to lead as his duchess? Her reflection frowned, crossing arms encased in white satin over a high-necked bodice in disapproval, for today was the date set for Amanda’s wedding to the Duke of Malvern, and short of locking herself in her room, there was nothing she could do to reverse the step she’d taken when accepting the duke’s proposal of marriage.

             
The marriage contract had been signed by both parties, a vast sum of her father’s fortune being placed in trusts and bonds and stocks—in short, tied up in so many knots and bows that the Duke of Malvern could never spend beyond what her father had allowed. Thankfully, Bron had signed with little salvo, merely handing the contract to Anthony Challoner to look over (his friend, his lawyer, and his best man) before affixing his broad, looping signature “Bron Malvern” to the papers. She would be “Amanda Malvern”, she learned from Mr. Challoner when she had questioned him about the duke’s signature; a peer’s wife was never referred to by the actual family surname.

             
Yet another step towards the deluge.

             
At first she had enjoyed the attention, her photograph in the major newspapers, shifty reporters from
Town Topics
attempting to bribe her servants, and the Vandewaters besieged by invitations to balls, boxes at the Metropolitan Opera, and dinners at Sherry’s or Delmonico’s. Her dressmaker, Lenora Breese had also benefitted from Amanda’s unorthodox commissioning of her wedding dress from the talented Negro over the House of Worth, and Miss Breese’s Sixth Avenue shop was dizzy with the number of carriages filled with wealthy ladies of the Four Hundred that dropped in every day.

             
Bron had been attentive, though he was rather taken aback by American wedding customs, of which the groom had little to do. In the first flush of wedding preparations, he and Mr. Challoner had upset her father’s temper by disappearing overnight, only remembering to send a wire from Ohio of all places the following afternoon. When they had returned, she wanted to discover the reason behind this mysterious trip, but Bron had deflected her attempts to coax his secrets out of her with another of his drugging, toe-curling kisses.

             
`They somehow managed to contrive to be alone as much as possible, and Amanda’s stomach fluttered in memory of their equally ravished states, his mouth bruised, his shirt partially unbuttoned, and his burnished hair standing on end. The honeymoon was one aspect of this entire affair about which she had no hesitation, and for a brief, wild moment, she wished they could ignore the binds of civilization and indulge in the physical pleasures of a man and a woman sans the wedding ceremony.

             
Her bedroom door opened behind her and Miss Breese’s well-proportioned figure appeared in the mirror, a long, flat white box in her hands.

             
“You can’t marry without your veil, Miss Vandewater.” Miss Breese smiled, deep dimples creasing her cheeks.

             
Her skin was the color of buttery toffee, and her hands possessed the delicate surety of highly-skilled seamstress as she worked open the box and lifted the veil feather-light ivory tulle attached to a band of small pearl combs. Amanda stopped fidgeting, staring at their shared reflection as Miss Breese stepped on the stool beside the mirror and placed the veil over Amanda’s softly-waved chignon, tucking and adjusting the combs, folding and laying the tulle until it lay just right over Amanda’s face and body, falling nearly to her waist.

             
“There,” Miss Breese clasped her hands in satisfaction. “How do you like it?”

             
“Beautiful,” Amanda whispered, seeing the finality of her purpose in the mirror. “You’ve done a lovely job, Miss Breese.”

             
“I have a lovely client, Miss Vandewater,” The seamstress smiled again. “I’ll never forget to thank the Lord for the day you walked into my shop and asked me to design your wedding dress.”

             
“My parents were horrified,” Amanda grinned at the memory. “But I was determined to have as American a wedding as possible, and your shop caught my eye when I drove down the Ladies’ Mile.”

             
“I can’t thank you enough,”

             
“No,” Amanda turned, grabbing the seamstress’s hands (ignoring her shock over the gesture). “I thank you. I can’t praise you enough for such an impossibly exquisite dress.”

             
Miss Breese dimpled again and pulled her hands away. “Mrs. Vandewater is on her way up to give you your ‘Something New, Something Borrowed, and Something Blue’.”

             
“I think my bracelet is something new,” Amanda lifted her left wrist to show the diamond bracelet dangling over her sleeve. “My father gave it to me over breakfast this morning.”

             
“You’re a blessed girl, Miss Vandewater,” Miss Breese raised her brows at the sparkling stones.

             
“I hope so,” She said anxiously.

             
The door opened again and her mother entered the room, holding a box.

             
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Vandewater.” Miss Breese inclined her head to her mother.

             
“Hello Lenora,” Her mother stopped to stare at the wedding gown. “I see my reservations were misplaced; you’ve outdone Worth, I believe.”

             
“Thank you Mrs. Vandewater,”

             
“Have you seen my veil, Mother?” Amanda lifted the veil from her face, tucking it over her head. “Miss Breese used all of the pearls from my christening necklace.”

             
Her mother came closer to inspect this. “How clever. You are a woman of many talents, Lenora.”

             
Miss Breese inclined her head. “If I may be excused, I have a number of clients awaiting me at my shop.”

             
“Yes, of course,” Her mother waved a hand in dismissal. “Now, Amanda—”

             
“Wait a moment, Miss Breese!” Amanda swept the creamy satin train of her gown in her hand as she turned around to catch the seamstress before she departed.

             
“Yes, Miss Vandewater?” Miss Breese paused just outside of the door, her expression wary.

             
Amanda pondered that for the briefest of moments before hoisting her hems to hurry towards her dressing table. She released her gown to open the ornate, gilt box and retrieved one of the photographs she had taken of herself in her wedding dress. She then repeated the aggravating motion of holding up her heavy, lace-trimmed skirt and train to walk to Miss Breese, holding the photograph out to the seamstress.

             
“For your shop. I’ve autographed it.”

             
Miss Breese took the photograph and held it in both hands. She darted a curious, searching glance at Amanda, who flushed, realizing the seamstress had noticed her large, looping signature “Amanda Vandewater.” However, to her relief, Miss Breese merely nodded her thanks, tucking the photograph into her handbag.

             
“I appreciate this, Miss Vandewater. I pray your marriage is all you desire.”

             
Amanda stared bemusedly after Miss Breese, who, with head held high, ignored the door to the servants’ stairs and walked towards the landing of the Vandewater’s Fifth Avenue townhouse to descend the crimson-carpeted winding staircase and exit through the front door. How odd of Miss Breese to use that particular phrase…Amanda shook off her feeling of unease and closed her bedroom door, gliding back to her mother, who now sat in one of the uncomfortable French chairs she had chosen to have strewn about Amanda’s bedroom in imitation of a French salon.

             
“I’m sorry, what were you saying, Mother?” Amanda brushed her veil away from her face.