Four Nights With the Duke (14 page)

He moved remarkably fast for someone in his cups; he was gone from the room in a moment. Mia was forming the distinct impression that Chuffy was sometimes less inebriated than his consumption implied he should be.

“Your Charlie informed me that I replaced an earl’s son,” Vander said, taking a swallow of his brandy. “May I assume that your father did not wave a letter in the man’s direction to inspire a proposal?”

Mia set down her glass so abruptly that liquor spilled over the rim. “I know that our marriage isn’t what you wish, but I would ask that you not mock me because I was jilted.” She paused and added, “Mr. Reeve and I were very much in love, and had been
betrothed for months before we were due to wed. I can assure you that he wanted to marry me.”

“Forgive me for pointing out the obvious, but his marital intentions are strongly in doubt, considering his absence at the altar.” Vander’s face had taken on that expressionless look again, a trick she suspected he used to mask strong emotion of one kind or another.

“That’s true,” Mia admitted. She was still coming to terms with the fact that Edward was not the man she had believed him to be. She seemed unable to find gentlemen as decent and honorable as those she invented; perhaps they existed only in the world of fiction.

Her readers often complained of the same lack in their letters.

“It wasn’t that he didn’t care about me,” she added, coming belatedly to her own defense. “Edward could not face the responsibility of raising Charlie.”

Vander’s mouth was tight with disgust. It was a pity because she really liked his mouth. Very few men had that deep lower lip. He would hate the idea, but she thought it softened his face and gave him a deep sensuality.

Unbelievable.

She realized it too late. She’d fallen into the same trap again.

Vander tapped on her nose and she looked up to meet his eyes. “You escaped that marriage by the skin of your teeth. You see that now, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said.

Vander stared down at his wife, wondering why he felt such a blistering sense of relief at the unmistakable ring of honesty in Mia’s voice. Why would he care if she was still yearning for a man who wouldn’t have her?

She was
his
wife.

A novelist? Who would have thought? He knew she was intelligent, but he wouldn’t have dreamt that she had the talent to become a successful novelist. Frankly, that dreadful juvenile poem made it seem especially unlikely.

Contrary to what she thought, he didn’t give a damn if she was writing depraved novels. Though he would like to read them.

There was just one aspect of her novels that he had to clarify, though. He moved closer. His hands itched to touch her, but he kept them to himself. “You’ll have to teach me something about your work. I’ll read one all the way through. And the depraved bits of the rest.”

“I can’t imagine why you would do so. My father and brother made no attempt to read them. And despite your uncle’s enthusiasm, I am certain that most of my readers are females.”

“I shall read one, or even more,” Vander promised. “But I do have to tell you, Duchess, that you must give up the romantic dreams you have about marriage. I’ll never do any of those other things you envision.”

She put on a mock shocked face. “Your Grace, are you informing me that you will permit me to go bobbing down an icy river?”

Vander let out a crack of laughter. “I promise to throw you a rope.”

“No need,” she said, looking away. “I’d sink like a stone anyway.”

The image of Mia floundering in an icy river was surprisingly unpleasant, so Vander barreled on. “I was referring to romantic gestures like the dukes in your novels probably make. Bringing you posies, writing poetry, showering you with jewels. Your father was
constantly giving my mother litters of glass animals. I will never do anything of that nature.”

“All right,” she said readily.

“We won’t have that marriage.” He caught her eyes, because this was truly important. “We can have much more, Duchess. That romantic claptrap is for novels, not for life. For dreamers, like Chuffy. Like my mother, for that matter. She satisfied herself with glass steeds, when there were flesh-and-blood horses in the stables.”

Mia gave a tight little nod.

Satisfied, he recognized that they had reached the point in a negotiation at which his opponent understood that there was no logical reason to continue arguing: Vander was going to win.

On all points.

She would capitulate now, and agree to live with him as his wife.

But she surprised him, raising that firm little chin in the air. “To be perfectly honest, even though you are forcing me to remain your wife, I do not intend to beg you for those four nights.
Ever
.”

That was a facer, not merely because his body was pulsing with desire to possess his bride, but because he did need an heir at some point. He let some of that desire show in his eyes. “What if
I
begged
you
?”

Her expression did not change an iota. “I will say no. This afternoon I came to understand that I cannot fight the fact you are using Charles Wallace to ensure that I acquiesce to our marriage. I made myself vulnerable through my own actions. But you placed yourself at
my
mercy when you wrote that contract specifying that we would be together only on the nights I implored you to join me.”

A reluctant grin touched Vander’s lips. He had just
come face to face with a negotiator who had adroitly circled around behind his defenses.

And bested him.

If he was honest with himself, in some twisted way he had been looking forward to the four nights with Mia.

Of course, that was when he had believed she adored him. When he believed that he would be doing her a favor. He had felt an errant pride that a woman—any woman—had loved him to the point at which she would go against her own moral code in order to bed him.

He hadn’t been dreading the marriage bed. No, he had pictured himself looming over Mia, her curls spread across the pillow, eyes soft with desire and love, rounded body
his
and only his. She would be ecstatic because she was finally his.

Wrong.

This woman’s mouth was set in a firm line and her eyes were fierce.

Very wrong.

“All I ask is that we revisit the issue in a year or so,” he said. “At some point I must produce an heir. There is no particular urgency.”

Mia frowned. “I suppose we could consider it once we are better acquainted. But Your Grace, I
beg
you to rethink your decision about this marriage.”

Why the hell was she so reluctant? It must be the fiancé. Maybe he was one of those pretty men. Vander knew perfectly well that there was a brutal shape to his chin, and an energy about him that women either loved or loathed.

“You are my wife,” he stated, “and you shall remain my wife. We should have a conversation about Sir Richard’s litigious intentions, as well as about management of the Carrington estate.” He saw
exhaustion in her face, so he added, “but that can wait until tomorrow.”

Her eyelashes flickered. “Will I be part of management of the estate?”

“Of course. Unless you’d rather not.”

“My father did not believe that a woman could have a head for business.”

“Given what I’ve paid for Chuffy’s novels, I would venture a guess that your career is quite profitable.”

A smile lit her eyes. “My father told me that I could keep my pennies.”

“I always thought he was an ass.”

“I would not say that. But we often did not agree about business matters.”

“Are you really one of the most popular novelists in England?”

Pink came up in her cheeks. “Yes.”

“Brava,” he said sincerely. Suddenly his body was more aflame than he could remember being; something about Mia’s combination of sensuality and intelligence was wildly arousing. Bedding her would be the key to turning their marriage into the comfortable arrangement he had envisioned. Only it would be even better than he had thought, because he now respected her reasons for forcing him to marry.

After spending the afternoon with Charlie, he knew already that he’d blackmail the king himself to ensure his new ward’s safety.

Once he managed to seduce Mia, he would dispense with the four days proviso and give her access to his bed whenever she wanted.

Hell, maybe he would even let her sleep with him. He had never slept with a woman, but he was warming to the idea of reaching for Mia in the middle of the night.

Rolling over and sliding his hands between—

“If you’ll excuse me, I will retire and have a light supper in my chamber,” Mia said. “The brandy went to my head and besides, I have a letter to write.”

“Of course,” Vander said, thinking that perhaps they could eat together in his bedchamber. It would be a prelude to eating in bed.

Before he could put the idea into words, Mia withdrew, nipping out of the room. He almost started after her, but thought of the blue shadows under her eyes and stopped himself.

His wife would be his wife for years.

He thought he might like her to kiss him goodbye when she was leaving a room. Her lips were . . . delectable.

They could work on that later.

NOTES
ON
J
ILTING
S
CENE

Flora has to confront Frederic or seem a jelly-boned coward.

She should toss her prayer book to the side and tell the
jilting
faithless count exactly what she thinks of him, that sniveling, dribbling, dithering, palsied, pulse-less man.

Flora waited at the altar, her graceful hands clutching the prayer book that her dying moth—

Count Frederic walked into the church, and Flora knew instinctively, with just one look at his
devilish
black eyes, that he intended to humiliate her in the worst possible way, in front of the whole of the
beau monde
. She hurled her prayer book like a discus, knocking him to the ground.

Then she walked over his prone body on her way out the door.

This isn’t working.

M
ia awoke the next morning feeling much better.

Few women would complain about being married to a wildly handsome duke. Though they might grumble about Vander’s ready agreement to forego consummation of their marriage.

She would have put it down to dislike of her figure, but although Vander thought she was dumpy, he had kissed her that one time. Well, two times.

Men were like that, by all accounts. Merely being in the vicinity of a woman made a man eager to bed her. It was interesting to discover that her governess had been correct in that respect.

She rang the bell for Susan and walked into the bathing chamber, only then making an important discovery. A door on the opposite wall from the bathtub almost certainly opened into Vander’s room. And Mia couldn’t see a hook that would prevent him from walking straight into the chamber while she was bathing.

Naked and surrounded by all those mirrors.

That would absolutely not do. Hooks must be installed immediately. In the meantime, she made Susan stand guard before that door while she bathed.

Sometime later she made her way down to the breakfast room, finding it empty but for Nottle.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” the butler said. “May I offer my felicitations on your wedding?”

The words dripped with insincerity, but Mia chose to ignore his tone. “Thank you, Nottle. On another note, I should like someone to install locks on the inside of the doors in my bathing chamber.
Both the doors leading to my bedchamber and to the duke’s.”

“To be quite certain that I understand Your Grace,” Nottle said in a wooden voice. “You wish to have locks nailed onto both sides of the bathing room doors? Those doors were imported from Venice, where they graced a three-hundred-year-old palazzo.”

“Precisely. Those doors,” Mia confirmed.

When he didn’t immediately agree, she asked, “Perhaps you would be happier if His Grace confirmed my request?” It appeared that Nottle felt that her rank was trumped by her sex.

“Of course not,” he said, as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Mia wasn’t sure what that meant, but she disliked melted butter.

And Nottle.

She moved toward a chair to sit down, but the butler said, “If you will forgive me, Your Grace, I have an urgent domestic conundrum on which I would request your guidance.”

“Oh,” Mia said, turning back. “Of course, Nottle. What is it?”

“The late duchess’ animals.”

“All those glass ornaments,” she said, understanding his problem. “They must be very tiresome to dust.”

“I was referring not to the collection, but to her canines,” he said, with a pained expression.

“Winky and Dobbie!” Mia exclaimed. “Of course I remember her dogs. Dobbie must be getting on in years. What became of them in the last year?”

“Generally speaking, they have been confined to the gardener’s shed. And, on occasion, the potato cellar,” he added.

Mia frowned. “Why on earth are they in a shed? They’re used to having the run of the house.”

“I would ask you to bend your eye to the carpet in this room.”

Through a triumph of will, Mia did not roll her eyes, but instead looked down at her toes. “Yes?”

“Silk, woven in the mountains of the Kashmir,” the butler said, his voice exhibiting signs of enthusiasm for the first time. “Not only are claws deleterious, but I regret to inform you that in the wake of the duchess’ passing they developed a propensity for unconstrained urination.”

Mia took a moment to work out what he was saying. “They were probably in shock! And no wonder, if you confined them to the potato cellar. Did the duke approve of this treatment?”

“I do not disturb His Grace with domestic arrangements,” the butler said loftily.

“You didn’t even ask him?”

Nottle’s eyes shifted. “The duke has no interest in such trivial matters. However, as it has transpired, His Grace accompanied Lord Carrington to the kitchens for a late-night snack, and the dogs were discovered. I should be most grateful, Your Grace, if you could ensure that the animals are confined to the nursery at all times. I will have the carpet in that room taken up.”

“Winky and Dobbie will not be confined to the nursery, any more than they should have been in a cellar,” she told him. “Accidents will cease as they grow calmer.”

If possible, the butler’s long face grew even longer. “Am I to understand that the rugs are hostage to the emotional state of those animals? May I have your permission to keep them confined until they achieve a point of serenity, Your Grace?”

“One might almost think you were trying to be humorous, Nottle,” Mia said. But it was clear he was
not. She sighed. “The dogs will reside with Charlie; since he is unlikely to spend much time downstairs, the carpets will be protected.”

Nottle inclined his head, apparently mollified. “Perhaps you can inform me, Your Grace, what sort of accommodations we should make for your ward, given his . . . condition.”

Mia’s eyes narrowed. Was that revulsion she detected? She gave him the benefit of the doubt. “My nephew is somewhat restricted in his movements, but he never causes trouble.”

“I was wondering whether some of the chambermaids who do not have strong stomachs should be reassigned.” There was a look in his eyes that confirmed he would prefer that Charlie live in the potato cellar to the nursery.

With this, Mia’s previous doubt was erased. Her face must have conveyed a warning, because he added, “For the good of the young master, of course. No one would want him discomfited by the foolishness of a country girl.”

“‘The foolishness of a country girl,’” Mia repeated. “What precisely do you mean by that?”

The butler looked down at her from his considerable height. “This household prides itself on overlooking disagreeable particulars whenever possible. It is the way of the Dukes of Pindar.”

“I understand there have been more than enough to avoid,” Mia said. “But I am the current Duchess of Pindar. Are you telling me that you foresee maids fainting at the mere sight of Charlie?”

“One would hope not,” Nottle said. “But one must be awake to such possibilities, given the child’s malformation.”

Mia came to an abrupt decision.

“You are dismissed,” she said, pulling herself up
as tall as she could, which unfortunately was only to his armpit. “I am letting you go. If the duke wishes to furnish you with a recommendation, that will be entirely up to him. But I would like you gone by noon.”

Mia had dismissed only two servants before, in both cases for stealing. And in both cases, the servant in question had responded with every sign of guilt.

Nottle did not adhere to that pattern.

He too pulled himself upright until he towered over Mia—obviously using his height to try to intimidate her—and announced, “I have served the Dukes of Pindar since I was eighteen.”

“In that case, His Grace must see virtues that I do not,” Mia snapped. “He can enumerate them in his letter of recommendation. But no one in this household will retain his or her position if my nephew is treated with even the slightest sign of disrespect. You might wish to impart that to the household, Nottle, before you pack your belongings.”

“We’ll see what His Grace says to this,” the butler said, his voice all the nastier for verging on a hiss.

A sound came from the open door behind him and Chuffy walked into the breakfast room, clapping his hands lightly. “Come, come, Nottle. You don’t really think that a newlywed duke will countermand his wife’s control in domestic matters, do you?”

“This is unconscionable,” Nottle said, for the first time looking a trifle disconcerted.

“I shall not stand up for you,” Chuffy advised. “I don’t care for the way you look at me when I’ve had a drop more than is advisable.”

“I’m sure that I have never offered you the least offense.”

“Well, you’d be mistaken. I think you’re often offensive when you believe you aren’t,” Chuffy retorted. “Come now, my dear, would you like a glass
of Canary wine? It’s just the thing to settle a morning stomach, I find.”

Mia discovered that she was shaking. She wasn’t used to this sort of confrontation. She retreated out the door Chuffy had just entered, followed—to her dismay—by both men.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must return to my chamber for a moment,” she said to Chuffy, ignoring Nottle. She walked back up the stairway, keeping her hands in front of her so that neither man could see they were trembling.

Upstairs, she darted back into the room, closed the door, and leaned against it. Susan looked up in surprise. She was unpacking the trunks that had arrived the night before, carefully putting Mia’s gowns in the clothes press.

“Goodness, my lady,” Susan asked, “whatever is the matter?”

“I’ve just dismissed Nottle.”

“You did what?” her maid cried.

“I let him go,” Mia said, sinking into a chair. “I told him to be gone by noon.” Her heart was still racing. “It was dreadful, Susan. He initially refused to leave until he’d spoken to the duke, but mercifully, Sir Cuthbert was very supportive.”

“Sir Cuthbert is a drunkard, but a sweet one, by all accounts,” Susan said, dropping the gown she was holding onto the bed and coming over. Her face was alive with curiosity. “What on earth made you so angry at Mr. Nottle? Mind you, I don’t care for him. He thinks entirely too much of himself. You’d think
he
was the duke.”

“He was rude about Charlie,” Mia said. “Beastly, really. He implied that the chambermaids would faint at the sight of his foot.”

“That
is
beastly.”

Mia’s heart was beginning to slow. The dark, frumpy gowns lying on the shelves of the clothes press caught her eye and she made another lightning decision. “I need some new gowns, Susan, made from silk, in beautiful colors.”

She’d be damned if the floors of Rutherford Park were better dressed than its mistress.

Susan beamed. “Now that Sir Richard isn’t holding the purse strings, you can order whatever you wish. You’re a duchess!”

“I suppose,” Mia said. She had never really bothered about clothes before. Charlie didn’t care what she looked like, and she hadn’t wished to spill ink on expensive fabrics. Ever since the season in which she debuted—only to be roundly ignored by all eligible young men—she had lived quietly at home, occasionally attending local assemblies, but rarely venturing to London, and never into high society.

But she felt shaken by Nottle’s contempt. She had a shrewd feeling that her wardrobe had something to do with his attitude, though her father’s relationship with the late duchess likely lay at the heart of the problem.

Susan veered back to the topic of the butler. “It was terribly ill-bred of Mr. Nottle to oblige the grooms to talk about His Grace’s fisticuffs with Sir Richard. Mr. Gaunt would never allow such gossip. Mind you, Mr. Gaunt had a way of making his feelings known: he never cared for the way Master Charles Wallace’s mother used to shudder if she caught sight of him. But he wouldn’t say anything aloud.”

That particular memory confirmed Mia’s impulsive decision to get rid of Nottle. Poor Charlie had put up with disdain from his mother; he needn’t face the same from the butler.

“Last night Nottle said at the supper table that Master Charles had a flipper instead of a foot,” Susan said, both hands on her hips now. “I said as how he was utterly wrong about that, and he told me to shut my mouth.”

Mia felt as if there wasn’t enough air in the room. It wasn’t merely the confrontation with Nottle; it was all too overwhelming. “Susan,” she said desperately, “I
cannot
stay married to the duke.”

Her maid plopped down on the bed. “Why not? He’s a fine figure of a man, and the household likes him. That says a good deal. And now you’re a duchess.”

“I don’t want to be a duchess! I never did.”

Susan scoffed at that. “That’s like saying you hate diamonds. Only a witless woman would say that she doesn’t want to be a duchess. You can have all the gowns you want.”