The Perfect Duchess

by Jen YatesNZ

  Never had she felt so at outs with Mama; couldn’t help feeling she’d failed a test she hadn’t even known she’d faced.

  It was as if Mama had expected so much more from that morning ride, hadn’t cared to listen to her concerns, her fears. In fact, Mama seemed to have an agenda all her own.

  Was she in financial difficulties? What had she said? Something about Dom’s protection extending to her as Sheri’s mother. Had losing Papa left her feeling adrift—vulnerable?

  God, her head ached. Could she cry off the theatre engagement tonight? Climbing from the bath she dried off and wrapped in a soft, cozy robe, went to her desk. Paper. Ink. Pens. It was all to hand, but—how could she be so lacking in manners? And how would Mama react to that?

  Turning from the desk she paced the room, picked up a book of Lord Byron’s poems from the bedside cabinet, walked to the window and abandoned it on the wide seat there. Her heart wouldn’t stop pounding in her chest. Her fingers kept stealing to her lips, remembering the feel of his.

  She’d had Dom’s tongue in her mouth.

  Jassie certainly hadn’t been in her mind then. Nor did she think she was even in Dom’s. Could it be enough? Was it possible she could make him forget his love for Jassie? She and Jassie were as opposite as day and night. Her friend was everything that danced and sparkled, like sunlight on gold or dancing off water. Of course he loved her!

  Leaning her hands on the dressing table, she peered in the mirror.

  With her pale hair and carefully controlled demeanor, she was more like moonlight on ice. Why would he want her when that was all she’d allowed him to see?

  Until this morning.

  She began pacing again, arms folded tight across her chest, almost unconsciously shielding that which she’d hidden all her life. What would become of her if she turned him down? Society would probably turn its back on her. She’d be deemed beyond the pale altogether. If the most eligible man in the country wasn’t good enough for her, what did she want? No one would offer for her again and she would die an old maid, childless, alone—

  Springwoods and her horses would be enough for her, she’d always said.

  But were they?

  What if she accepted what he offered? At least she’d have him in her bed, in her life. They’d have children—miniatures of Dom with black hair and green eyes. Her heart had stopped its wild tattoo, but now it ached to know Dom’s children, her own.

  Which brought her back to the kiss. Despite the fact he loved another, he’d made her feel in that moment he thought only of her, cared only about her, was as affected by it as she.

  Because he was a man, he’d said. Was it just a female thing, this need to be the only one? Cherished, loved?

  Snatching up her sketchpad and a piece of charcoal from the desk, she settled in the window-seat with the pad on a cushion on her knees. Picking up a piece of charcoal always soothed her, channeling all her angst through her fingertips onto the sketching block.

  Time, place, herself, ceased to exist. There was just the charcoal and the wild scenes it created; a feral-eyed woman with long hair matted about her shoulders, beating at the bars of a cage; the same woman running barefoot through the forest, eyes and mouth agape with terror as briars and ugly thorns reached out to snag her tattered black robe; on a horse, riding, flying, beyond the hills, beyond the clouds, beyond—

  A brief knock at the door snapped her back to awareness.

  ‘Mama? Oh—what time is it?’

  ‘Almost five.’

  ‘Oh!’

  Her fingers were black to the knuckle, the charcoal worn to a nub; her eyes were hot and dry, and she felt as if she’d journeyed to far and terrifying places.

  Augusta swept across the room, slipped her arms round Sheri’s shoulders and pulled her head onto her soft bosom.

  ‘Oh, Mama!’ she whispered, wriggling around to hold her mother close. ‘I love you. I know you only want the best for me—and I know Dom is the best for me. I’ve always known it. He’s the only one I’ve ever wanted.’

  Augusta let out a choked sigh.

  ‘But he loves Jassie! And has been as constant in that as—as Windermere! That’s not likely to change!’

  ‘It can,’ Augusta said, her voice rough with emotion. ‘Oh Sher, I always thought you held a tendre for Dom. I’m sorry I got so angry. Sometimes I feel this—terrible panic for you, for your future, all alone when I’m gone!’

  Sheri jerked back to stare up at her mother.

  ‘Are you ill, Mama?’

  ‘No, darling! But I’m no longer young either. I so want to know you’re taken care of!—Love is an amazing thing, Sheri. Give it a chance; allow that your love is enough to be starting with. When you have Dom as your husband your love will reach out to him, show him there can be more than one love in a lifetime. Trust to your destiny, child. And I believe Duchess of Wolverton is your destiny.’

  Sheri held on tight a little longer, her heart alternately soaring with hope and yearning, then dipping with fear and doubt. At last she stilled it’s giddying dance and leant back to look into Augusta’s eyes.

  ‘Thank you, Mama. I will do it.’

  Augusta searched her eyes for a moment then happiness flooded her face and she hugged Sheri close against her breast

  ‘Thank God,’ she whispered at last and when she leant back both their faces were wet with tears.

  ‘You haven’t eaten since breakfast. Shall I send Maggie so you can dress and come down for dinner? What will you wear tonight? You have that bronze satin and lace you’ve never worn. You’ll knock Dom’s eyes out if you wear that.’

  Sheri pulled out of her mother’s embrace and carried the sketchpad to the dressing table where she sank onto the stool and gazed at the bold flowing strokes of the sketch. Even there the woman’s gown clasped high about her neck.

  ‘Which is precisely why I’ve never worn it! It’s lower than I like. Anyway—I was just going to send a note to cry off.’

  ‘Too late for that now, child! We’re not dealing with just anyone here. He’s a duke!’

  ‘He’s always been just ‘Dom’ to me, Mama. Always will.’

  ‘He deserves better from you, Sher. You’re stronger than this, I know you are.’

  Sheri dropped the nub of charcoal onto the pad and stared down at that last sketch—on horseback, flying free, beyond the clouds. The swelling joy of it ached in her chest.

  ‘You’re right, Mama. I hate people who—wallow!’

  ‘Don’t underestimate the love you feel. But it doesn’t change who you are inside, so don’t let it overtake you either, or blind you to what it means and what you must do now.’

  ‘Take a husband who loves my best friend,’ she said bitterly.

  Still she couldn’t let it go.

  Augusta sighed then crossed to rest her hands on Sheri’s shoulders so they faced one another in the mirror.

  ‘You will have him, Sher. He can learn a different love.’

  Sheri’s hand crept to her chest. Augusta’s eyes followed it, darkening with understanding.

  ‘Touch cannot see in the dark. Much of what passes between husband and wife of an intimate nature takes place under the bed clothes, under cover of darkness. With the feel of you in his hands he’ll forget anything else.’

  Hot color flooded Sheri’s cheeks and her hands flew to cover them.

  Augusta pressed a kiss on her daughter’s cheek.

  ‘You are more precious to me than anything. I’ve only ever wanted your happiness and been content to let you find it in your own way. But—time is running out, Sher. You’ll be twenty-four soon—’

  ‘A veritable ape-leader!’

  ‘You’re the most beautiful woman in London—at the moment, but a woman’s looks don’t last forever,’ Augusta murmured. ‘Dom and all the consequence he commands is yours for the asking. Please don’t turn your back on him.’

  Sheri dropped her hands from her face and gazed at her mother in the mirror.

&nbs
p; ‘I don’t think I can anyway. I want him too much!’

  …

  Dom had spent the rest of the day scouring shipping manifests for every ship from America to England in the twelve months following Sylvaine Walsingham’s birth, looking for her name or that of her nurse, or anyone who might’ve had a connection to her father, Maynard Walsingham. He understood the man wanting to shield his innocent daughter from the taint of scandal, but it seemed as if she’d vanished without trace.

  Should he make a trip to America to search death records?—He didn’t have time to be away again. He had a wife to court and estates to run. Maybe he’d just write to his agents in America to search for him.

  ‘Hold still, Your Grace,’ Patchett muttered. ‘This scar makes it easy to nick you, even when you’re still. Don’t want to be going to the theatre with blood dripping onto your linen!’

  Dom held his breath while Patchett carefully wielded the razor over the ridges of the sabre slash. Ugly though it was, he gave thanks it had missed his eye and mouth. As it was, women seemed to be drawn to it, said it made him look dark and dangerous.

  What did Sheri think? She’d never mentioned it though her gloved fingers had briefly touched it when he’d kissed her in the park this morning. It was a while since he’d been to the theatre—probably last year when he’d gone with Rogue and Jassie and Bax. Sheri had been there then too. She was so—contained, so still. Jassie easily overshadowed her in his mind.

  Vibrant, golden Jassie—Windermere’s wife. Oddly enough that picture didn’t hurt as deeply as it usually did. His thoughts returned to Sheri and the kiss. The scent of her, gardenia, evocative of purity, serenity, mystery; the feel of her beneath his hands, all woman. Taller than many, which he enjoyed. But the sensation of her melting into the kiss, mouth opening for his, welcoming him, and the odd little moans he was certain had surprised them both, had his body stirring. Not wise while Patchett wielded the blade over his face.

  ‘Done, Your Grace,’ the man said, staring at him in the mirror as if he’d said something Dom had missed.

  ‘What? Oh—thanks Patchett. Not like me to go off wool-gathering!’

  Patchett grinned.

  ‘A beautiful woman will do that to a man!’

  Now how did Patchett know it was a woman on his mind? Why was he wondering? Patchett always knew more about him than he knew about himself!

  Sheri was coming down the stairs when Lomas let him into Parmenter House. Removing his hat and gloves, he stood just inside the door to watch as she descended.

  ‘Shall I take those, Your Grace?’

  He’d forgotten Lomas, or even what he held in his hands. He could scarcely greet her properly with his hands occupied with his own attire. Passing them absently to the butler he moved forward to offer assistance as she essayed the last step.

  ‘Good evening, Dom,’ she murmured, proffering her hand. Instead of barely touching his lips to her gloved fingertips, he pressed his mouth to the soft skin peeping between the buttons of her gloves. Her skin was warm against his lips.

  The rich bronze of her gown shimmered in the light of the candelabra as if dusted with gold. Her eyes had the same golden sparkle.

  ‘Good evening, Sheri.’

  Soft color warmed her cheeks and heat flashed in her gaze. The touch of his lips had caused a little of her cool, controlled facade to slip, affording him a glimpse of the passionate woman hidden beneath the icy, regality she showed the world.

  Heat pulsed through his blood. Jassie’s brilliance had blinded him, so warm, so vibrant—and now belonged to Windermere.

  What might he find beneath Sheri’s frozen veneer, now he’d thought to look? It was a long time since a woman other than Jassie had set his blood to simmering. He’d let his mistress go last year. That one night with Jassie had ruined him for any other—he’d thought. Apart from a few encounters with importunate widows his only outlet since had been the occasional on-demand performance at the Matrix Club as Master of Virgins, a role his cousin, Knightsborough, had coerced him into accepting. Those women, desirous of cheating fate, were securely masked, as was he, and each one became Jassie in his fantasy. Lately—even that had palled.

  It had never occurred to him Sheri might be the one to stir heat into ashes where others hadn’t. And he’d all but asked her to be his wife!

  Gently she retrieved her hand.

  ‘We should go and say good night to Mama.’

  Following her into the front parlor he noted the gown cut low in the back, exposing soft creamy skin below her shoulder-blades; lower than the front, where a gold lace fichu filled the deep neckline. She’d have a beautiful cleavage if she ever showed it off. He realized, regardless of fashion he’d never seen her wear a low cut gown.

  ‘Good evening, Dominic. Oh my! The pair of you make my heart flutter!’

  …

  Sheri could still feel the imprint of his lips on her wrist, like flame to a gunpowder fuse racing through her bloodstream, detonating explosions of heat in places she’d never been able to control around him. Could she put aside her quest for love and accept what fate was offering her?

  ‘Good evening, Aunt Gussy.’

  Dom bent over her mother’s hand with the same perfect elegance he’d greeted her.

  ‘Sheri looks stunning. Does she not, Dom?’

  ‘Absolutely, Aunt Gussy.’ He turned to Sheri. ‘That color makes your eyes glow.’

  ‘La, Dominic! It’s going out on the arm of a handsome man as does that!’ Augusta said archly.

  Sheri caught herself before she whipped round to glare ferociously at her mother. Stay cool, controlled, she warned herself, giving Dom a fleeting smile before turning to Augusta.

  ‘Enjoy Lady Jersey’s soiree, Mama.’

  ‘You could’ve come with us to the theatre,’ Dom offered.

  ‘And how would you manage to romance my girl with her Mama privy to every word? She’s not a green miss just out.’

  ‘Mama!’ Sheri warned.

  Augusta waved a hand at her.

  ‘Go! Enjoy yourselves!’

  Maggie was waiting in the hall with her velvet evening cloak. Dom draped it expertly around her shoulders, his hands brushing her neck, his eyes holding hers. Heat surged through her body and burned in her cheeks.

  How did you disguise desire when the right man finally noticed you? She’d never had this problem with her hidden self before. Then again, Dom had never turned the power of his attention towards her before. Now she’d experienced it, how would she manage if he still looked at Jassie that way? Her hands began to tremble.

  He swiftly donned his hat and gloves, slipped his hand under her elbow and guided her down the steps. His footman held the door for them, but it was Dom’s hand beneath her elbow, assisting her up into the shiny black carriage with the ducal crest emblazoned on the door. Even through his gloves and her clothes his hand seared like a brand. Mama’s faith in her maturity might be a little misplaced!

  Regardless she tried to put space between them as she settled on the far side, he followed her across the leather, sitting close enough her skirts drifted over his thigh. She’d always longed to touch, test the resilience of that muscled form. Lord, it was hot in the carriage! His hand closed over hers in her lap. She was going to die from oxygen deprivation. Dom’s hand was in her lap! Could he feel the burning heat rising from beneath her skirts?

  ‘Breathe, Sher. I’m only holding your hand. We should probably get used to touching one another a little more intimately than we would on the dance floor if we’re to consider marriage.’

  Thank goodness it was dark enough he couldn’t see the flood of heat in her face as she fought to stop herself begging for more touch. Had she ever thought she could refuse him? Her head might shout and admonish all it liked. Her body definitely had other ideas! What would he do if the sedate, perfectly behaved Lady Sherida Dearing pressed herself against his chest and begged him to kiss her again—like this morning, more than this morning?

&n
bsp; All too soon they were pulling up before the theatre and waiting their turn to alight.

  ‘I asked Bella and Briersley to join us tonight. Best we tilt a little at propriety until we have settled something between us.’

  ‘That—will be lovely.’

  She liked his sister. Proper, as his honor would demand. Would she ever see that other side of him, a side young ladies like her shouldn’t even know about? She’d heard whispers of some club—not one of the respectable establishments like White’s or Watiers’, but somewhere of a darker reputation. Jassie had hinted once, soon after her marriage, that men knew so much more than carefully protected virgins. Perhaps she should ask her to share more details. Except Jassie had hinted at things about His Grace she might prefer not to know. What if Jassie knew him more closely than she’d admitted? What if—No! She didn’t want to know.

  Climbing out as the door was opened for them, Dom reached back for her hand. She carefully schooled her features into ‘Heavenly Iceberg’ mode—oh, she knew what the ton called her and was content for them to think so. She knew better. How was she to keep this knowledge from Dom? Should she even?

  …

  The Iceberg was back. Perfect, regal, elegant, cool—controlled. Dom knew he’d seen desire flare in her eyes when he’d kissed her wrist and felt the heated tremble of her fingers through their gloves. He also knew she’d been aware how close his hand was to the untouched core of her as he’d held hers in the carriage. Untouched! Damn. He was an expert at bedding virgins. He knew how to make the experience one of exquisite pleasure, but always in his mind, each one was Jassie. They were blindfolded and where they went in their minds he neither knew nor cared. He made their first sexual experience as fulfilling and fantastical as he could. It was what they asked for, one perfect night.

  Initiating Sherida Dearing would demand something more of him. She was not a rebellious young woman being forced into a marriage not of her choice. Sheri would be his wife—if she ever agreed—and it’d be beyond ironic if he left her wanting in any way, more especially in such a way as tempted her to seek satisfaction elsewhere.