How to Deceive a Duke (7 page)

Chapter 12

F
lora watched Temberlay leave after ravishing poor Marguerite before her eyes. “Well, I see all the stories I’ve heard about that man are true!” she snapped.

“What do you think of your new husband, Meg?” Hector asked, but she was staring at the door with her mouth open.

Flora shook her daughter’s arm. “Perhaps you
should
get some rest this afternoon.”

Marguerite turned to look at her, her eyes still wide. “You will return for dinner?” she asked. “There will be a wedding supper, surely.”

“Are you certain you wish to remain in this house, married to that man? Hector could still arrange an annulment,” Flora said. “Even after that kiss.”

“All I would have to do is admit I am not Rose. If the marriage is to be valid, then it must be cons—”

Flora held up her hand. “I cannot bear to think of it!”

“Is it so terrible?” Meg asked.

Flora felt Hector pinch her arm to silence her. “Temberlay may not be what he appears, Meg. There are other, better, stories about him too.”

Flora pulled her arm free indignantly. “From what I’ve seen here today, they can’t possibly be true!” She read the reproof in Hector’s eyes and glanced at Marguerite’s pale face. Her eyes were on a statue in the corner of the room, a Grecian maiden tied to a stake. She reminded herself that Marguerite was sacrificing herself for the sake of her family.

“I’m sorry, Marguerite. I’m all nerves and hysteria today. Of course he will make a good husband.” She tried to feel it, but her conviction melted like butter.

She was thankful that Rose had not married him. She would have wilted under the man’s insults, and that kiss would have killed her outright. Flora embraced her daughter, kissed her hot cheek, felt her cling for a moment before she stepped back and squared her shoulders.

“I will see you both at dinner,” she said with the kind of bright tone she used when things couldn’t be worse. Flora had no idea what to say, how to help, though she wished she did, now of all times. She might have with Rose, but Marguerite was stronger, smarter, the one she leaned on now Marcus was gone. She struggled for the right maternal words to say. She’d been a bride once, facing her wedding night with the same fears Marguerite had now, but the fierce bravery in her daughter’s eyes stopped Flora. She knew that look, Marguerite at her most determined, her most capable. Perhaps everything would be well after all, and she needn’t worry.

Hector caught her arm.

“Come, Flora. I’m sure Meg has things to do this afternoon, and we must go.”

He took her elbow firmly and led her toward the door.

“I
should like a tour of the house, please,” Meg asked the butler when he returned.

He bowed. “Shall we start with the library?”

The breakfast room, den, drawing room, and sitting room were all on the way to the library, and each room was filled with roses—pink, red, yellow, and white. The lavish arrangements had obviously been prepared especially for her—well, for
Rose
—and every blossom reminded Meg that she was a fraud.

She decided she hated roses.

There weren’t any flowers in the library. Bookshelves soared to the ceilings in the vast room. It was
his
room, she could see at once, though she couldn’t imagine him with a book in his hand. There were decanters on a small mahogany table near the desk, deep leather chairs, and the room smelled of tobacco.

The bust of a soldier glowered at her, warned her away, standing guard in Temberlay’s absence.

“An extensive library,” she said, aware that Gardiner was awaiting her reaction.

“If there is anything in particular you wish to read, you need only ask His Grace. Most of the books are from his own collection.”

“You mean the late duke, I assume?” she said. Surely this Temberlay did not read. Wherever would he find the time?

“I mean Duke Nicholas, ma’am. The late duke did not enjoy reading.” He pointed to a portrait of a gentleman who resembled Nicholas only slightly. “That’s the fifth duke.”

“Is there a portrait of my, um, husband?” she asked.

“Not as yet, Your Grace. I’m sure there will be in time. There are many fine family portraits at Temberlay Castle.”

She walked around the room. A statue of a naked nymph graced a pedestal near the window. She grinned at Meg with cheeky delight. Now that spoke of Temberlay.

“His Grace encourages the staff to read his books whenever they wish. He has only just finished shelving the many books he brought back from Spain.”

“Oh?” Meg looked at the butler, read the admiration in his eyes.

He led her to a space on the shelf and pointed. “His Grace served with Lord Wellington on the Peninsula for three years. He is a true hero. You may have read about his service in the
Times
.”

Meg touched the cool leather spines, reading the titles. Her father believed war was an improper topic for ladies and forbade any mention of it. The
Times
too was forbidden. She had heard of Napoleon, of course, but she knew nothing of the battles, or the heroes. She took out a book of paintings of the Spanish landscape.

He offered her another book. “If I may be so bold, I recommend this one—a tourist’s guide to Spain and Italy, written in the last century, before the war. Shall I send both books up to your apartments?”

“Yes, thank you,” she murmured, already lost in exploring the shelves as he crossed the carpet silently to pull the bell. There were thousands of books on every topic—science, architecture, gardens, mathematics, and history. She felt a thrill run through her. She had been forced to sell most of Wycliffe’s library, and she missed the pleasures of good books. Despite her father’s strict rules, she had spent hours reading.

She stopped at a book on horses, felt again the pang of loss. The paintings reminded her of her father’s fine stable of Thoroughbreds. They had been the first things that had to be sold— Arabella, her foal, and the Wycliffe Arabian—just days before his death. They’d been her father’s pride, her joy, and she dreamed of having them back again. Wycliffe’s stables had been famous, and she’d loved the horses. They hadn’t cared that she had red hair instead of blond. She ran a fingertip over the painted fetlocks of a fine stallion, so like the Arabian.

“Your Grace?”

She turned at the sound of a timid voice. A young maid curtsied. “I’m Anna. Mr. Gardiner has asked me to assist you.” She came forward and tucked the stack of books under her arm. “If you’ll come this way? Mr. Gardiner said tea would be sent up to your apartments shortly. Cook also baked some cakes for you this morning. She is very excited about the wedding supper, since there was no breakfast this mor—” She paused. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. My tongue runs away with me at times. It is not for me to question arrangements.”

Nor was it up to her, apparently. “Perhaps I might see a copy of tonight’s menu?” Meg asked. “Not to make changes, of course, but simply out of interest.”

They reached the second floor, and a pair of footmen swung open a set of double doors as they approached.

She stepped into an elegant sitting room. Anna bustled to the windows and opened the drapes, letting sunlight fill the room. “There’s a lovely view of the garden,” she said, and crossed to open another set of doors, which led to the bedchamber.

Like the sitting room, the bedchamber was done in shades of pink and green. Luxurious damask curtains draped a huge bed that occupied one entire wall. The head of the bed bore the ducal crest, embroidered and framed, and Meg winced. The hind caught in the wolf’s merciless clutches was out of place here, or perhaps it wasn’t. This bed was designed for the grand task of breeding heirs.

With Temberlay.

Her stomach climbed the back of her throat, and she stared at the bed. His ravishing, stunning kiss still burned on her lips. He said he planned to teach her things in this bed, intimate things she couldn’t even begin to imagine. Or could she? A shiver, half fear, half anticipation, crept up her spine. Hadn’t she imagined exactly this when she gazed at the scandal sheets?

She pushed the wicked thought away. Scandal sheets and imagination were one thing, but bedsheets and Temberlay in the flesh were something else entirely. She ran her hand over the fine bed linens, tempted to tie them in knots and escape out the window. He would be naked, as would she . . . She gulped.

“This is the dressing room. It connects to His Grace’s suite,” Anna said, opening a smaller, narrower door. “Beyond that are His Grace’s apartments.”

Meg stared at the door that led to his rooms. Would he stride through it tonight, come to her? Or was she expected to go to him? She wished her mother had stayed, so she could ask.

She returned to her sitting room, where a tea tray already waited.

“Is there anything else I can bring you, Your Grace?” Anna asked.

Rest well this afternoon. You’ll need your strength tonight.
His words echoed in her mind. Meg swallowed the lump in her throat and shook her head.

She let Anna unpin her veil and loosen her hair before she left. She turned to the light luncheon Cook had kindly provided as the staff left and shut the door behind them. There was enough bread and cheese and sweets to feed an army of duchesses. Did they too expect she would need her strength? Her cheeks burned. A copy of the menu for the wedding supper, sent up along with her tray, confirmed it. Seven courses of fish, fowl, vegetables, sauces, meats, and pastry had been planned.

She imagined Amy in the kitchen at Wycliffe, working alone, and wondered just how many servants were required to produce a meal of this caliber. She hadn’t even asked about the guest list. Perhaps there were several dozen people expected. Her stomach quailed and she put down the apple tart she’d been about to eat.

She tiptoed to the connecting door to his apartments and put her ear against it. Would it be locked? She turned the latch, and the door opened.

The scent of his soap reminded her she was trespassing. His dressing gown hung behind the door, his brushes sat on the table. She crept to the wardrobe and opened it, expecting to find a dozen other outlandish outfits, but to her surprise, his clothing was sober, well tailored, and the height of refined elegance. She ran her fingers over the fine wool of a dark blue coat. Why hadn’t he worn this to the wedding?

At the back of the cupboard, a scarlet military tunic glowed, a hero’s coat, just as Gardiner had said. Hector had said there was more to Temberlay than salacious gossip. Meg only knew him as the Devil of Temberlay, rake, gambler, and lover. Which was the real Temberlay?

She opened the door to his bedroom. His bed was even larger than hers, and the ducal crest had been carved in oak in his room, a reminder of duty, responsibility, and power.

There was another shelf of books here, and still more volumes on a battered campaign table that stood in the corner. She ran a finger over a divot in the wood. Was that a bullet hole, or the careless mark left by a booted foot propped on the mahogany surface?

She glanced at the books, wondering what a man like Temberlay liked to read. There was a treatise on artillery, an atlas, and a tome on astronomy, among others.

She picked up a book with an exotic blue leather cover, embossed with swirls and arabesques and set with gems. It had no title, so she opened it.

Her eyes widened in surprise.

Every page had drawings of naked men and women, together, embracing, caressing. She stared at a sketch of a woman on her back, her face slack, her eyes closed, as a dark-haired man kissed her throat, his hand on her breast. The woman’s fingers were tangled in his hair, white on black. Was it Temberlay? She couldn’t tell. She tilted the book and looked closer.

The latch rattled in his sitting room, and she heard the door open. Footsteps came toward the bedroom, and she raced for her own rooms, still clutching the book. She shut the door and froze, her ears pricked for sounds of pursuit. Was it Temberlay, returning? After a few moments, all was quiet.

She opened the book again. Was this how it was between men and women? Is this what Temberlay would do to her, here, tonight, in this very bed? She stared at the smooth satin counterpane and swallowed.

In some of the paintings, sloe-eyed women draped in exotic garments of colorful silk lay with their lovers in lush gardens under crystal stars. Each lady reclined serenely as he knelt between her thighs, or caressed her from behind. The male member was as large as a stallion’s. Surely there couldn’t be room for such a thing in the tight trousers English gentlemen favored. The women did not appear to be distressed. In fact they looked as placid as mares.

It seemed there was a vast number of ways to accomplish the deed. Legs, arms, mouths twined together in endless variations.

She shut the book with a snap, and paced the floor, thinking. Her heart was pounding, her skin hot. The paintings made her feel warm, restless, tingling.

Her mother had said to lie still. Temberlay had insisted that innocence was an inconvenience and a hindrance to pleasure. She was mystified.

She shut her eyes and fled to the safety of the sitting room, and tried to concentrate on the sober book on travel, but the images of Temberlay, and bed, refused to leave her alone.

Chapter 13

N
icholas was shown into the drawing room of Ives House to see his friend and comrade in arms, Major Lord Stephen Ives.

“Hartley! I heard you were about to get married. Actually, you’re Temberlay now, aren’t you? Should I bow?” Stephen asked.

Nicholas didn’t answer. “I’ve come to ask a favor,” he said.

“Do you wish me to stand as best man, perhaps? Come and sit down. Whisky or tea?”

Nicholas set his hat on the table and followed Stephen into the drawing room. “Neither, and the wedding was this morning. Other than the requisite witnesses, there were no guests.”

Stephen’s smile faded. “I see,” he said, and Nicholas wondered if he did.

“I understand you will be going to Vienna with Lord Castlereagh for the peace conference, Stephen.”

“They seem to think I’ll make a suitable aide to the ambassador,” Stephen replied, taking a seat across from Nicholas. “Do you wish to come as well? We could use an officer of your particular talents. Talleyrand will be there, and that’s one Frenchman who is even more slippery and dangerous than Napoleon. We’ll have our hands full making sure he doesn’t negotiate us into allowing France to keep half of Europe.”

“I have responsibilities here, I’m afraid,” Nicholas said, wishing again he was free. “Do you remember Lady Julia Leighton?”

Stephen’s brow furrowed momentarily. “Of course. She was betrothed to your brother, wasn’t she? My sister knew her slightly as well, and they spoke at parties when they met, since you and I served in the same regiment as her brother James. Dorothea hasn’t heard from Julia for some time, though she sent her condolences after David’s death. Have you word of her?”

“She is under my protection for the time being, but she wishes to leave England,” Nicholas said.

Stephen’s face clouded. “Ruined?”

Nicholas nodded. “I don’t have the full details, since she will not reveal them. My brother died in a duel shortly after she admitted she was with child. Her parents declared her dead, and I put her up in a house nearby, but her father insists she must leave London, or better still, the country.”

“And the child?”

Nicholas tried to read his friend’s face, searching for an indication of scorn or disgust, but there was only vague interest.

“A boy,” Nicholas said. “Not David’s, though. She named him James, after her brother.”

He could tell by the flush of Stephen’s skin that he remembered James Leighton. “A thousand men would have died if James Leighton had not sounded that alarm, and I would have been the first of them. It cost him his life, and he died a hero.” He looked at Nicholas. “You knew him better than I did, since his sister was betrothed to David.”

“Since childhood. I was wondering if you would consider taking Julia with you and Dorothea to Vienna. She could be a companion to your sister.”

Stephen looked thoughtful. He rose and poured two tumblers of whisky and sat down. “What about her son?”

“She has said she will not give him up. There is a nurse, of course.”

Stephen sighed. “Dorothea was brokenhearted when she lost her husband, and then her child. She has not been the same since Matthew’s death, and I’m not certain how she would react to having another woman’s baby near her.” He shook his head. “Nor am I sure the ambassador will approve of having a fallen woman among the British contingent.”

“Julia’s smart. I daresay she’ll make herself useful.”

“Is she likely to, um, commit any future indiscretions?”

“It was a surprise to everyone that she committed the first. She is hardly likely to trust another handsome face. I proposed to her, Stephen, and she refused.”

“Are you in love with her?” Stephen asked in surprise. Nicholas thought of his bride. Would he have been happier to find Julia under the veil instead?

“No,” he replied. “It was a gesture for David’s sake, and for hers. I wanted to protect her and the child. We grew up together, and she’s like a sister to me. Julia made a mistake, and she will pay for it for the rest of her life. The bastard who seduced her won’t face such scorn.”

“I’ll broach the subject with my sister. Company might do her good, especially a friend like Julia. She’s refused every invitation for months. I can’t leave her here alone, and I’m hoping this trip to Vienna will revive her spirits, but I can’t force Julia and her child on Dorothea if she isn’t ready. Will that do?”

“For now.” Nicholas picked up his hat. “Thank you.”

Stephen followed him to the door. “When will we meet your bride?”

Nicholas shook his head. “I only just met her myself this morning, at the wedding. I plan to banish her to Temberlay Castle first thing tomorrow.”

Stephen folded his arms. “You surprise me. You show Julia such compassion, yet you have no regard at all for your bride? You were always most chivalrous with women in Spain, whether they were ladies or camp followers.”

“This isn’t Spain. I have no idea if she deserves my compassion or not. She’s a complete stranger, and my grandmother has paid her well for the honor of becoming a duchess. I, in return, have one more responsibility I do not want.”

“I’ve never known you to run from a challenge, Nick. In Spain, the bigger the danger, the faster you’d go toward it. You never took the easy way in my recollection. I know the field you’re facing now may not be optimum, but this is simply another battle to be won. Perhaps you’ll find your bride to your liking. She was brave enough to marry you, and that alone speaks well of her. ”

Nicholas remembered the kiss, the way she handled Sebastian. “She shall get as good as she gives.”

Stephen shook his head. “I shall wish you happy anyway, old friend. You deserve it.”

N
icholas climbed into his coach. “Pulteney Street,” he ordered the coachman. Was Stephen right? He’d imagined a wife would be one more burden, another dull duty. Was she?

Tonight he would bed her, a virgin stranger, and Stephen was right about one thing. He had the same feeling in his gut he always got before a battle.