How to Deceive a Duke (10 page)

Chapter 18

N
icholas rode through Hyde Park in the buttery morning sun, his mind fixed on the pleasures of his wedding night. He shifted in the saddle, easing a very inconvenient erection, and nodded out of habit to a passing rider without even noticing who it was. He thought of her lips parted with desire, her long legs tangled with his, the sweet sounds she made that left him in no doubt that she liked what he’d done to her. He’d certainly liked what she did to him.

He groaned, and the other rider cleared his throat and spurred his horse onward.

He watched him go, whoever he was, and mentally listed the pleasures he planned to show Rose tonight.

He smiled absently at a carriage full of fashionable ladies of the
ton
, but did not stop to flirt.

It wasn’t until Hannibal snorted that he realized he was on the verge of directing the stallion home, toward his bride, before they’d even begun their morning’s exercise. Hannibal missed the heat of battle as much as Nicholas did, and he let it show in his boredom with ladies and London parks, but he objected to missing any ride at all with a toss of his head. Nicholas curbed him, made him walk sedately.

The horse obeyed instantly. Why couldn’t his wife do the same? She’d thrown him out of her room. If it had happened to any other gentleman of his acquaintance, he would have laughed till his sides ached, but it was different now.

He supposed he should have demanded an explanation, or set out some rules. When he’d woken this morning, he’d considered having his valet tell her maid that he wished to see her at once, but he’d decided against it. He wasn’t ready to face her just yet, not without wanting to touch her, kiss her—he sighed like a lovesick boy.

Hannibal snorted a warning, and Nicholas looked up and winced. Lady Fiona Barry’s carriage slid to a stop beside him.

“Devil! I know you wouldn’t dare ride past me without bidding me good morning,” Fiona chirped, her eyes roaming over him hungrily.

Nicholas gritted his teeth, pulled Hannibal to a standstill. “Good morning, Lady Fiona. Fine weather for a ride.”

Fiona could smell gossip a mile off, and dined on scandal for breakfast. “There’s a dreadful rumor afoot that you’ve taken a wife. Tell me it isn’t true! Every female heart in London would be broken by such terrible news, including mine.”

“Alas, Lady Fiona, it is true indeed,” Sebastian said, riding up with his sister Delphine in tow.

My, but it was crowded in the park this morning, Nicholas thought, imagining pulling Sebastian’s tongue out, but it kept flapping. “I stood as his groomsman at the wedding yesterday. The official notice is in the
Morning Post
today.”

Nicholas turned his attention to Delphine, and tried to divert the conversation. “Hello, Delphie. That’s a fetching hat.” But Fiona put a gloved hand to her cheek, her eyes glowing with delight.

“Poor, poor Devil! She must be positively dreadful if you are already up and out so early on the very morning after your wedding. Who is she? Come to breakfast and tell me all. I am a sympathetic listener, and the soul of discretion.”

Sebastian stifled a laugh, damn him, and Delphie made a small sound of indignation at Fiona’s audacity. Nicholas realized he was about to become the laughingstock of London. It infuriated him, made him incautious.

“On the contrary. My bride is sleeping late for obvious reasons, but I, poor mortal that I am, can hardly stay away from her. I had to leave lest I found myself too tempted by her charms to show her due consideration.”

Delphie gasped in maidenly shock. Sebastian’s jaw dropped. Fiona looked stunned. Even Hannibal rolled his eyes.

Nicholas felt his neck grow hot under his cravat. Now whose tongue should be plucked out? Why the hell had he said such a thing, and to Fiona of all people? Was it chivalry, coming to the defense of his wife, or idiotic male pride?

Fiona slid her eyes to Sebastian. “Who is she, St. James?”

It was like offering candy to a wide-eyed child. Sebastian liked to gossip almost as much as his sisters, but even Delphie winced as her brother leaned in to share his knowledge.

Short of shooting Sebastian, there was little Nicholas could do but watch the disaster unfold. By lunch, half of London would know every detail about his wedding. He regretted the green coat now. By tea, the other half of the
ton
would be making up stories of their own about the ceremony, the bride, even the wedding night.

“She’s a beauty,” Sebastian drawled. “The daughter of the late Earl of Wycliffe, blond like her mother. She was beset by wedding nerves yesterday, of course, having to marry Temberlay sight unseen, but she is renowned throughout her native Somerset for her beauty, sweet nature, and gentle ways.” He had the nerve to wink at Nicholas.

Blond like her mother.
The words hit Nicholas like grapeshot.

He tightened his hands on the reins and stared at his friend.

“You should be glad you didn’t wed her sister,” Sebastian rambled on. “They say that one is a wild hoyden, complete with the devil’s own red hair. She has a sharp tongue and a bold manner. I think your sweet Rose has just a touch of her sister’s temper, perhaps.”

A red-haired hoyden with a sharp tongue.

There was no mistaking which sister he’d married.

“You’d do well to curb that streak of temper early, Devil,” Fiona said with acid sweetness. Anger welled in his gut, churned upward.

Red, not blond.

“Perhaps your husband could advise me,” he said coldly, ignoring her gasp at the set-down. Without another word, he tipped his hat and nudged Hannibal to a trot.

Sebastian caught up with him. “No one could have gotten away with that but you, Nick. Fiona’s ears will be stinging for a week.”

Nicholas ignored him, stared at the track ahead, seeing his wife’s glorious red hair.

“So how’d it go last night?” Sebastian asked. “We missed you at dinner. Or at least some of us did. Your bride seemed quite content without you, though I feared her mama was going to carve me like the roast! Where were you, anyway? With Angelique?”

Nicholas reined Hannibal to a sudden stop. He hadn’t even thought of Angelique.

Sebastian fought to halt his own mount, turn him to face his friend. “What the devil is the matter with you? You’re acting strange this morning, even for you. Did something go wrong after I left?”

Nicholas’s hands tightened on the reins so hard the leather of his gloves squeaked.

“How do you know Rose is blond?”

Sebastian’s grin shone again. “There are times when having sisters is quite useful. Delphie asked Eleanor, and Eleanor’s maid just happens to be from Somerset, from quite near Wycliffe Park, in fact. Wycliffe had four daughters. Despite his own ugly face, he managed to breed three beauties that resemble their mother, all of them blond and sweet-tempered. The fourth girl is an odd duck, to put it politely. Apparently Rose left a lot of broken hearts in Somerset when she married you. Your grandmother did you a favor after all.”

There was a curious buzzing in Nicholas’s head. He sat very still, his jaw tight, his eyes forward.

“Nick? What’s wrong with you?” Sebastian asked. “D’you fancy going to the club for a drink? We could celebrate—”

Celebrate?

Nicholas kicked Hannibal to a gallop and left Sebastian coughing dust.

Redheaded hoyden. Liar.

She’d tricked him.

No one had ever duped him. Not his wily French enemies in Spain, not the hardened gamblers he met in the clubs and gaming hells, and certainly never a woman. He was—or at least he
used
to be—smarter than that.

At home, he tossed Hannibal’s reins to a waiting groom and climbed the steps two at a time. Gardiner stood in the hall, in the way, or Nicholas would have gone straight upstairs to find the odd duck, redheaded hoyden.

“Where is my . . .” He paused. What was she? Not his wife, surely. Not his duchess.

His deceiver.

He watched the butler’s imperturbable smile slip a little at the harshness of his tone.

“Her Grace is with the dowager, sir. Is there anything I can get for you?”

Nicholas stared at the staircase, wondering what Granddame was saying to the treacherous little—

He didn’t even know her name.

Shame warred with anger in his breast. Had she said it yesterday when she spoke her vows? He hadn’t bothered to listen, only thinking how unfortunate the whole situation was. If only he’d known the truth of that! But he’d been so busy giving his own performance that he hadn’t even suspected she was giving one of her own. His mouth dried. Was her response in bed yet another deception?

“Send for Mr. Dodd, Gardiner. I want to see all the marriage documents, the contract, the license, everything. Send it all up to—her—apartments.”

Gardiner hurried to obey, and Nicholas went to his wife’s rooms to wait.

Once Granddame was through with the little imposter, it was his turn.

Chapter 19

T
he dowager duchess was seated at her desk by the window when Meg arrived in her study, her black-clad back to the door.

“Good morning, Marguerite,” she said without turning.

Meg let out the breath she was holding. “How did you know it was me?” She’d been ready to fight this morning, but the dowager’s smile as she rose was—well, pleasant, almost welcoming.

“I knew the day I saw you at the modiste’s. Or rather, I suspected it would come to this.”

“But I didn’t—” Meg began, but the dowager waved her to silence.

“Come now! When I did not see your sister, I had inquiries made. I was hardly surprised she’d run away, given her reluctance to marry Nicholas. I wondered what your mother would do, what you would do, so I simply waited. Do sit down. We have a lot to discuss.”

Meg obediently sank into the straight-backed chair the dowager indicated. “Why didn’t you stop the wedding?”

The dowager’s laugh was filled with icy triumph. “That would have caused quite a scandal. Nicholas would have undoubtedly enjoyed the fiasco, given his behavior yesterday, but neither you nor I would have liked it, and it would not have done the Temberlay name any good. I arranged this marriage to tie him to a lady of impeccable respectability. Imagine how it would have looked if I’d denounced you as an imposter?”

Meg swallowed. She was simply a female of suitable pedigree, interchangeable with any other lady of her class. Emotions were never meant to enter into this match. But after last night—she shut her eyes, feeling shame, regret, and longing.

The dowager mistook her frown. “There’s no need to feel guilty. You’re a clever girl. Your sister was unavailable and you took her place. I applaud your daring. I knew it was you the moment I saw that hideous veil. Why else would a bride wear such a thing? To be truthful, I prefer you to your sister. You have the spine to stand up to Nicholas, and I have hopes that you will truly reform him. Your sister would not have managed such a feat.”

Meg felt her skin flush. “I have no interest in reforming him, Your Grace. I married him, and the marriage is consummated. I intend to return to Wycliffe.”

The dowager cackled. “Running away already? Perhaps you are not as brave as I thought. Did the wedding night frighten you? Was he rough with you? He is angry, but it’s done now. Next time I daresay it won’t be as difficult for you.”

Meg felt her skin heat from her toes to her hairline. She raised her chin. “That may not be necessary. There is much to do at Wycliffe. I will send word if I prove to be with child. Or not.”

The old lady’s gray brows rose. “You are not Wycliffe’s daughter any longer. You are Temberlay’s duchess. You have social obligations, and you will remain in Town. You must be presented at court. If and when you are indeed with child, you will retire to Temberlay Castle. The heir to the dukedom must be born there. Your mama will have to do without you from now on.”

Meg raised her chin. “This is a marriage of convenience, Your Grace, not a love match. No one will expect us to appear together in public.”

“On the contrary, Marguerite. You were chosen to give Nicholas the appearance of respectability. You will be seen at every ball, every soiree, every opera as his wife, the virtuous daughter of the Earl of Wycliffe. That is your duty, as much as producing an heir.”

It meant more nights in his arms, days in his dangerous, seductive company. Was he the hero Hector and Gardiner believed he was, or the rogue of the scandal sheets? Tempting as he was in print, he was overwhelming in the flesh.

“What is it, child?” the dowager said with mocking pity. “Surely you realize it’s too late to be unhappy now. You married Temberlay to save your family, didn’t you?”

Meg’s temper prickled. “I married him because I wanted to be rich again.”

The dowager laughed again. “Then why would you wish to return to Wycliffe? If you want to enjoy his money, then London is the place to do so—the jewels, the parties, the pretty clothes are all here, not in Somerset. But you don’t really care about that—you sold yourself to the devil for your family’s sake.” She paced the room, leaning on her stick. “Of course, I suspect there’s more to your choice than family or money isn’t there? You wanted
him
.”

Meg shook her head, felt her skin heat.

“Come now. Let us be honest now it’s done. I saw your face that day at the modiste’s. And why not? He’s a handsome man, has a certain reputation for—”

Meg shot to her feet, aghast. “No!”

The dowager raised her brows. “Oh? You said the marriage had been successfully consummated. He enjoys almost legendary status as a lover. Did you enjoy it?”

Meg didn’t answer. She felt her flesh heat as her body remembered every caress, every kiss.

“Well?” the dowager demanded.

Fury made her bold. “He was magnificent, Your Grace, everything they say, and more,” she snapped, trying to shock the old harridan into silence. Instead she grinned and thumped her walking stick on the floor with glee.

“See? I knew you’d make him a fine match! You’ve got the fire your sister lacks.”

Meg stared at the dowager. She didn’t care a whit for anyone’s happiness. She had arranged this match to get a child of her blood. The feelings of the parents of that child didn’t matter in the least. She wondered what would happen if she dared to disappoint the dowager hopes, and produced a girl. She remembered the disappointment in her father’s eyes every time he looked at her. Surely the dowager would be even colder, crueler.

“You’d best go and prepare yourself to receive afternoon callers,” the old duchess said, dismissing her. “Once word gets out, and since Sebastian St. James is as much a gossip as his sisters, I don’t doubt it already has, the
ton
will want to get a look at you.” She pursed her lips and regarded Meg. “Wear something fetching. You should also plan to introduce yourself to Temberlay. We can’t have him calling you Rose any longer. It would be irksome as well as awkward, should she choose to reappear now the wedding is done.” She nodded a crisp dismissal. “You may go.”

Marguerite was speechless. She stumbled toward the door, her stomach in knots. This was not how she imagined it would be.

She walked back along the corridor to her apartments, watching her slippered feet appear and disappear under the frothy hem of her morning gown.

Facing the
ton
was almost as terrifying as facing Temberlay.

The finest ladies in London, the richest, most noble, most dangerous females, would arrive to scrutinize Devil’s bride, and to judge her suitability to number among them. Or not. A trickle of sweat rolled between her shoulder blades. Surely they’d cut her to pieces. Every country flaw, every little mistake would be magnified in the retelling, whispered about behind fans and kid gloves in fashionable salons all over London. She imagined the scandal sheets—the plain stick of a woman the handsome Duke of Temberlay had shackled himself to, and quite by mistake. She had saved her family, and ruined herself.

She gritted her teeth, and clasped her hands together, feeling the weight of the wedding band on her finger.

She must start today as she meant to go on, yet again. She couldn’t afford to set a foot wrong, and the rules of etiquette were complicated. How
should
she begin? She would start by asking Cook to make extra cakes and biscuits, she decided. Her heart quailed at the task of choosing the perfect gown.

Her wardrobe included dozens of morning gowns, day dresses, walking ensembles, riding habits, and evening gowns. The selection of tea gowns alone was endless. As the Duchess of Temberlay she would be expected to know the intricacies of fashion and good manners, even if her duke considered himself exempt.

And conversation . . . there would be questions about the wedding, about Temberlay, about her pedigree. How on earth was she to answer?

The footmen stationed outside her apartments swung the doors open as she approached, and she walked across the room to the window. She needed air, time to think of what she would say. She tugged at the sticky latch. Why wouldn’t it open?

“Do you plan to jump?”

Meg spun to find Temberlay seated in the wing chair by the fireplace, his legs crossed, his hands tented before his chest, his eyes as cold as ice. Her knees turned to water.

“I didn’t notice you there,” she managed.

He knew.

She put a hand to her throat. “I—” she began, but her explanation died on her lips as he got to his feet, and prowled silently across the carpet toward her with the lithe grace of a panther. She took an involuntary step backward.

He was still dressed for riding, hadn’t bothered to change. Today his coat was dark blue, his breeches buff, his top boots still coated with dust.

She was glad to see he didn’t have a riding crop.

Another step back and she was against the wall. He stopped and regarded her from a scant few feet away, his eyes gray chips of fury.

She forced herself to push away from the wall and stand on her own two feet, to look him in the eye. “I—” She cleared the frog from her throat. “I was hoping to see you today, Your Grace. I need to speak to you.”

“Ah, so it’s back to ‘Your Grace’ this morning, is it? Not Nicholas?” He slid an insolent gaze over her body. She curled her hands at her sides, resisted the urge to fold them across her breasts. “Why did you wish to see me? Do you wish to relive the delights of last night? I’ve a mind to do so myself.”

She felt hot blood fill her cheeks, and she dropped her gaze.

He came closer still. She could smell the wool of his coat, the slight tang of his horse, the now-familiar scent of his skin. He leaned in and blew softly in her ear. She flinched in surprise.

“There’s just one thing I’d like to know,” he whispered.

The timber of his voice vibrated through her, and she turned to meet his eyes, just inches from her own. “Yes?”

“When I come, and I feel inclined to cry out someone’s name, what in hell should I call you?”

Mortified, she would have turned away, but he grasped her chin, held her eyes with his own. “I can’t call you Rose, because you’re not Rose, are you? I hear that Rose is sweet, pretty, kind, and gentle. Her sister, however, is described as a redheaded hoyden.” He cast a disdainful glance over Meg’s careful coiffure. “That, I assume, would be you.”

The insult put steel into her spine. She pulled away, met his eyes boldly. “Marguerite,” she said bluntly.

He barked a laugh, spread his arms wide, and began to sing.

“
Oh Maggie mine, with your sweet tits divine, you are a delight in the dark of the night, but oh what a sight in the light!
”

Meg flushed to her hairline.

“There are more verses, if you’d like to hear them, each one cruder than the last,” he offered. She shook her head, unable to speak.

“Then perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell me where my real bride is so we can end this charade.”

Meg’s anger flared like a torch. He wanted Rose now, after— “Sorry to disappoint, Your Grace, but
I
am your wife.”

He sneered. “I’ve sent for the contracts, the marriage license, even the
Morning Post
. I have no doubt my solicitors will prove otherwise. Within the week, this farce of a marriage will be annulled and all London will be laughing about the chit who tried to sneak into a duke’s bed to claim a fortune.”

Meg’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Do you think I have any less daring than you, my lady?”

Meg was far less certain of her position now. Shame heated her cheeks.

“And just where is your delectable blond sister? How intriguing to have the virginity of sisters!”

Meg raised her chin. “Rose ran away the day she was told she would have to marry you. She
is
sweet and gentle. Why would she want a man like you? You’re disgusting!”

“You weren’t so disgusted in bed last night, Maggie.”

“Don’t call me that!” she snapped.

“Why not? It suits you. Maggie has the sound of the gutter to it, perfect for a sneak thief and a harlot.”

“Get out,” she managed through gritted teeth. It came out as a croak instead of a roar.

“This is my house. You get out,” he shot back.

She blinked at him for a moment. She could feel tears stinging the back of her eyes, and she would not, could not, allow herself to cry in front of him. He had a right to be angry, but his insults stung, especially after he’d made her feel so—

She reminded herself she wasn’t Rose, wasn’t beautiful. What man wouldn’t be disappointed?

She turned on her heel and made for the door, opening it and slamming it behind her, ignoring the shocked footmen. Temberlay didn’t follow.

She hurried down the stairs, her head held high, unshed tears blurring her vision. She prayed Gardiner would not appear now.

She did not stop until she’d reached Bryant House, and the front door closed behind her. The heavy oak panels shut out the sound of London traffic, and sealed her inside the quiet sanctuary. She breathed in the familiar scent of beeswax polish and her mother’s perfume. Shame made her shiver, but she was safe.

For now.