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Authors: Emma Wildes

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BOOK: Lessons From a Scarlet Lady
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Brianna said serenely, “It’s most enlightening and to the benefit of our marriage. Why should he mind if I read it?”
“Because it’s scandalous and entirely about seduction and licentious behavior, written, no less, by an infamous courtesan,” her friend said primly.
A valid point. Colton would be outraged to know she even possessed it. No doubt he would simply order it to be disposed of on the spot.
Unfazed, Brianna reached for a lemon tart on a small plate on the tea trolley. “Maybe so, but he seemed to like her advice in chapter one.” Taking a small bite of her pastry, she chewed daintily and swallowed, adding, “And you should see what she suggests in chapter two.”
 
White’s was crowded, but then again, it always was. Colton handed his greatcoat to the steward and headed for his favorite table. His youngest brother, Robert, was already there, a brandy in hand, sprawled comfortably in his chair. His paper was neatly folded next to the decanter and he grinned as Colton walked up and tapped it with his finger. Without even a greeting, Robert said, “Your beauteous duchess garnered a paragraph or two in the society pages, I see.”
Colton grimaced and pulled out a chair, sitting down to reach for a glass and the decanter. “So I understand.”
“In a very prominent place,” Robert expounded.
Colton loathed the gossip columns, but he knew Brianna’s décolletage could not have gone unremarked upon. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but what does it say?”
Three years younger, as much a friend as he was a brother, Robert had hair just a shade lighter, more dark gold than brown, and the same familial Northfield sky blue eyes. Right now they held open, lively amusement. “It isn’t all that bad, Colt. It merely mentions . . . er . . . her feminine assets were showcased in a manner that caught the eye. That’s all. Oh yes, and it speculates on whether or not she might be setting a trend for the younger women of the
ton
.”
“She is doing nothing of the kind,” Colton muttered, dashing brandy into his glass with a generous hand. “The only reason she wore the gown out in public was because I didn’t notice it soon enough. By the time I saw the outrageous garment, we were already at the opera and the damage done.”
“How could you
not
notice?” Robert leaned back, his mouth twitching. “Sorry to ask, but quite frankly, her attire sounded infinitely noticeable.”
It was a good question. Colton had asked it of himself in retrospect, still astounded he had acted so rashly in the carriage on the way home. He literally had almost been caught bare-assed by a footman, and was sure his entire staff knew what had happened between him and his beautiful, bemusing young wife. He should be grateful that
that
part of the debacle wasn’t splattered all across London.
“She was running late and had already donned her wrap when she joined me downstairs before we left,” he told his brother. “Otherwise, believe me, I would have noticed.”
In short, he was fairly sure she had done that on purpose so he wouldn’t order her to change. Her behavior was puzzling, because he could have sworn she wasn’t the kind of woman who would try to trick him in any way. The evidence, however, was damning.
“Brianna is young yet,” Robert observed, his long fingers playing with the stem of his glass. “I am sure she didn’t realize—”
“She realized full well,” Colton interrupted in clipped tones, recalling the flushed look on her face when he first truly saw her gown. “But rest assured it won’t happen again. After all, I pay her dressmaking bills.”
His brother lifted a brow. “I’m hardly an expert on marriage, but I do know women, and playing the despotic husband doesn’t seem wise to me.”
A table across the room erupted into laughter, but luckily enough it was at a distance where Colton could be sure it wasn’t a reaction to Robert’s comment. He said in a low, defensive tone, “What am I supposed to do, let her dress that way on a regular basis? I think not. She’s the Duchess of Rolthven. I am still not sure what prompted her actions in the first place, but she insists she wore the blasted thing because she thought I would like it.”
“Did you?”
Colton sent a sardonic look across the table. “If worn only for me in private, perhaps.”
“Perhaps?”
“Well, yes, I thought it was becoming, but from the most primitive male point of view only. As my wife, she shouldn’t have worn it.”
“Ah.”
“What the devil does that mean?”
His brother struggled to hide his smile and failed. “She has thoroughly rattled the prim and proper duke in you, I see. Good for her.”
Being called prim was annoying as hell. It brought to mind images of disapproving white-haired old ladies or dour Presbyterian ministers, and he wasn’t either one. Yes, Colton believed in at least some measure of decorum, but after all, he was a Peer of the Realm, and his position in society warranted a certain level of behavior. “Not all of us, Robbie, embrace notoriety,” he observed, not bothering to hide his irritation. “Nor can we all skip from the bed of one lovely lady to the next, never looking over our shoulders. I do take my responsibilities seriously, and that includes my marriage.”
Robert, who had a reputation as a rake of the first order and was infamously opposed to permanence, hardly looked chastened. Instead he chuckled. “I am sure you do. Everything you take on, from estate matters to your seat in the House of Lords, you handle with the same efficiency and expertise. But, let’s face it, Colt, you have never taken on a human being before. Not
just
another person, but a woman at that. She isn’t going to act as you wish, simply because you wish it. She might not act as you wish even if ordered to do so. Brianna isn’t only beautiful, she is intelligent—and, I am sure, confident she can make her own decisions.”
Stung, Colton retorted, “I know that. Who better? I had no interest in marrying an empty-headed doll. I admire her spirit and her intellect.”
“Then I caution a more subtle approach to this issue than telling her dressmaker you wish to approve her gowns from now on. That is insulting to Brianna, and since you abhor gossip, most ill-advised. It is an indication you disapproved of her attire and will get everyone talking about it again. You cannot count on your instructions to the modiste being kept quiet.”
It was galling to think his younger brother might be giving him sage advice—on the subject of marriage, no less, in which Robert had exhibited very little interest. But then again, his brother was right. Robert knew women—or should, for he had certainly sampled the charms of many of them.
Colton finished his brandy and poured another. He rubbed his jaw and sent his brother a narrow-eyed look. “For the sake of argument, let’s say I agree with you in principle. I naturally prefer diplomacy over being autocratic, but neither do I wish her name to regularly be on the tongues of the gossipmongers.”
Robert’s handsome face quirked into a thoughtful frown. “I’d say persuading her to your point of view is preferable to issuing dictates. If she chooses to wear another daring gown, change your mind at the last minute about going out. You just said you would be happy to appreciate it in private. Show her you do. This way, if every time her clothing is too outré for you to want to share her with all of London, you just stay in. She will get the message at once. If she wishes to go out, she will dress more demurely. If you are lucky enough she wants to stay at home, that, I suspect, will be even more pleasant. As I see it, you can’t lose.”
To Colton’s surprise, Robert’s advice made sense. At least he would not find himself making rash, uninhibited love to his wife in a moving carriage but could take her properly upstairs and close the bedroom door. Not that the interlude hadn’t been gloriously pleasurable, but he really hadn’t enjoyed almost being caught in the act. He much preferred to take his time, especially with a woman as alluring as Brianna.
He stared at his brother over the rim of his glass, the fragrance of the fine brandy drifting upward in a tantalizing waft. “That actually sounds like a viable solution.”
Robert spread his hands in a self-deprecating gesture, a cheeky grin on his face. “I enjoy discussing this subject much more than the dust-dry politics that usually occupy you, or worse yet, the latest meeting with your solicitors over some financial arrangement. What could be more intriguing than talking about women?”
Spoken like a true rakehell. Colton didn’t have the luxury of sitting around and daydreaming about how to placate his latest paramour like his younger brother, but quite frankly, since Robert had just exhibited such educated insight, Colton might have to consult him again.
“I don’t suppose I have ever thought of it that way, but I don’t have your latitude,” he murmured and then drained his glass.
“True enough,” Robert agreed cheerfully, reaching for the decanter. “Being the Duke sounds like a dreadful bore. It’s infinitely preferable to be third in line. When you get an heir, I won’t even be that.”
Now and again it
was
a bore to carry the burden of title and responsibility that went with having a great deal of influence, of course, but all of life was that way. His lighthearted younger brother hadn’t discovered that reality yet.
“Some day,” Colton speculated, his mouth curving as he imagined the event, “the time will come when a young lady brings you to your knees and I will enjoy the moment immensely.”
“Perhaps.” Robert looked unfazed and more than a little smug. “But until it happens—and I am not convinced it ever will—I’ll be around if you want to discuss again how to handle your beautiful bride.”
Chapter Two
Intrigue is as essential to the relations between men
and women as the air is necessary for us to breathe.
Our subtle dance with each other is what makes it
all so interesting.
From the chapter titled: “They Are All the
Same and Yet Different”
 
T
he image in the mirror wasn’t displeasing. Rebecca Marston smoothed one last brown curl into place and studied her appearance with a critical eye. Yes, the pale rose gown was a good choice, for it went well with the ivory of her skin and set off the dark gleam of her hair. There was one advantage to not being fashionably blond: her more dramatic coloring stood out from the other popular debutants vying for the attentions of eligible males. While she did wish she wasn’t quite so tall, her height wasn’t so pronounced it discouraged many suitors.
No, her real problem was her age, her prominent background, her very marriageable status,
and
her formidable father.
Actually, that was quite a list of problems—but problems that mostly applied to one man.
Rising from her dressing table, she picked up her fan with a sigh and left her bedroom. Downstairs she found both her parents waiting in the foyer. Her mother looked splendid, draped in emerald silk and a fortune in diamonds, a glittering diadem in her intricately coiffed dark hair. Her father was also dressed handsomely in his elegant evening wear, a ruby stickpin in his snowy cravat, his graying hair brushed neatly back. His impatience showed in the way he ran his gloves through his hands, his gaze settling on her with approval as she descended the stairs.
“There you are. I was just going to send up someone to get you, my dear, but it was well worth the wait. You look stunning.”
Rebecca smiled, but it was a little forced. She wasn’t looking forward to the next few hours. Another ball, another evening of eager men dancing attendance on her while the man she desperately wanted to show even a flicker of interest was laughing, charming, and dazzling
other
women, without even a passing glance in her direction.
It was a depressing thought.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she murmured, turning her back so one of the footmen could settle her cloak over her shoulders. “I couldn’t decide what gown to wear.”
How frivolous that sounded, though she didn’t think of herself as superficial in the slightest. If anything, she was quite the opposite. Music was the true passion of her life, and though her parents discouraged her from mentioning it when out in company, she wasn’t just a talented pianist and more than adequate on the harp, flute, and clarinet—her real interest lay in composition. Already, at the age of twenty, she had composed two symphonies and countless other smaller works. It felt as though a tune played continuously in her head. Putting it down on paper seemed only natural.
That
, of course, was as unfashionable as the color of her hair.
The carriage was waiting and her father escorted them outside, handing her mother in first and then Rebecca. She settled on the seat and braced herself for the usual lecture.
Her mother lost no time. “Darling, Lord Watts will be at the Hampton’s this evening. Please favor him with a dance.”
Boring Lord Watts with his staged laugh and wispy mustache. Rebecca didn’t care if he was the last man on earth—a potential earldom and fortune aside—she would never enjoy his company. “He’s a pompous oaf,” she said truthfully. “A philistine with no interest in the arts and—”

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