The Perfect Duchess

by Jen YatesNZ

  …

  Partners came and went, every one of them telling her Wolverton was a lucky dog and tonight she was indeed the ‘perfect duchess’.

  If she were to hear those two words one more time she wasn’t sure she could maintain even the semblance of an icy façade, let alone behave as the picture-perfect Duchess they thought she portrayed.

  She was dancing with a properly behaved Lord Baxendene when Dom danced by with Jassie. Their heads were close together, gazes locked. Sheri looked away, then strove to see around Bax’s massive shoulder.

  Aware of her compulsion, he maneuvered so they had a clear view of the couple across the room—just as Jassie dashed a tear from her cheek.

  What was Dom saying to her? At least he hadn’t thumbed away Jassie’s tears, as he had hers. Bax swung them round again obstructing her view, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

  ‘Want me to call him out?’ he asked, eyes smoky and serious.

  A serious Bax? She needed to remove that scowl from his handsome brow—and these black thoughts from her mind. She had to believe Dom meant to honor the pledge of loyalty he’d made her.

  ‘You didn’t come off so well in your last altercation with your cousin,’ she teased.

  ‘Ha!’ he grinned down at her. ‘This time I’d come prepared! I went to too much trouble to make sure he saw sense, not to mention losing a valuable horse, to let him turn it on its head now!’

  ‘Too much trouble?’ Sheri muttered.

  ‘I pray, Your Grace, you don’t believe I’m truly such the cad I played with my improper suggestions and crude bets? Although I really would have relished a night with the incomparable Ice Queen!’

  His eyes danced, a light misty grey, then turned serious again.

  ‘So—you deliberately set out to—?’

  ‘He was never going to take his eyes off Jassie long enough to see anyone else, otherwise. She belonged to Windermere. A wonder Rogue didn’t call him out. I just gave him—a bit of a smack upside the head, so to speak!’

  Despite herself, Sheri began to laugh with genuine merriment.

  ‘I do believe Dom delivered that particular smack!’ she teased. Then chortled, ‘Lord Bax, the Matchmaker! Move over Lady Chesterton! She credits herself with brokering at least half the marriages of the haut ton! Did you have anything to do with Windermere finally coming to his senses? How about tending to your own matrimonial affairs? I do believe they’re in urgent need of some—direction!’

  When he levelled her with a horrified grimace she couldn’t help adding, ‘You’re actually quite perceptive, aren’t you? Not really the wicked scoundrel you like to paint yourself.’

  ‘Hush your mouth!’ he commanded with a mock frown, dipping her in a twirl that took all her attention. As they settled into another more prosaic progression up the hall, he said, ‘I only did what no one else could do, nudged him in the direction he needed to go. The direction the whole ton could see he needed to go.’ Then he fixed her with the most serious expression she’d ever seen on his face, and said, ‘I wasn’t mistaken, was I, Sheri? It’s the direction you’ve long wished he’d look, isn’t it?’

  Compressing her lips might keep the words from being said, but the truth would be in her eyes and the heat flooding her cheeks.

  With a deep hum of satisfaction in his chest, he pulled her close in what might almost have been a brief hug, then in his normal, brash, bored, Great Bax voice, said, ‘Lady Chesterton! A low blow, Your Grace!’

  Then he swept her into a dizzy twirl through the throng of dancers, though not so aimlessly as it might have appeared, for they fetched up alongside Dom and Jassie, who were now dancing in companionable silence.

  Placing a heavy hand on Dom’s shoulder, Bax said, ‘I return your bride to you, Wolf.’ Then he leaned closer to Dom’s ear, and growled, ‘Treat her well—or I may still come prowling.’

  Holding out a hand to Jassie, he made an elegant leg and said, ‘Lady Jassinda, I’ve come to rescue you from your boring partner!’

  With a theatrical flourish he swept her off into the crowd on the dance floor and Dom turned to clasp Sheri against his chest.

  ‘What was all that about?’ he asked, settling his arm at her waist.

  ‘Uh—I’m not sure!’ Sheri said on a half laugh, half gasp for air at the sensations that flowed through her whenever she was in Dom’s embrace. ‘Just Bax being Bax, I guess.’

  ‘If he comes prowling anywhere near my duchess, he’ll discover this wolf has fangs!’ he muttered against her ear, then holding her much closer than was held socially acceptable, he began swaying their bodies to the rhythm of the music. All thought of Jassie fled her mind.

  …

  ‘We should circulate,’ he murmured after two more circuits of the hall, ‘and maybe you should rest a little—I have plans for you—later.’

  And if he didn’t keep his mind off ‘later’, he’d not be decent for any circulating.

  ‘Take me to Mama and Lady Olwynne. I’ve hardly spoken to them since—’

  ‘Since you became Your Grace, the Duchess of Wolverton?’

  He couldn’t resist teasing her now he’d discovered how delicious she appeared with a soft rosy blush to her skin.

  ‘Your Grace!’ Aunt Gussy scolded. ‘Finally we’re allowed a few moments with your beautiful Duchess?’

  ‘Reluctantly,’ he managed to answer, his voice a little more husky than usual. ‘You’ll have to learn to share now I’ve staked my claim, Aunt Gussy! Or perhaps I may address you as Mama also?’

  About to rap his knuckles with her fan, Augusta desisted and offered him her most angelic smile instead.

  ‘I’d be honored, Dominic!—Sheri, come sit awhile. You must be wearied from all that dancing!’

  He couldn’t help himself. He snagged Sheri’s glance.

  ‘Your Mama has the right of it—as I was just saying,’ he murmured.

  As he’d hoped, the color that had almost subsided from her creamy skin flowed back, giving her the delicate perfection of a peony rose.

  He’d spike his own guns with his lascivious thoughts. Reaching for the hand lightly clenched in her lap, he raised it for a press of his lips to her knuckles, and huskily murmured, ‘Until later.’

  He needed to get out of here. Cool himself down a little. A quiet moment and a brandy in his study, if he could ease out the door unobtrusively. Aiming for the servants’ entrance hidden behind a heavy arras in the corner near the high table, he angled towards it, barely stopping to acknowledge those who wanted to be seen in his company or,—for God’s sake!—wanted to talk politics! Though perhaps a dry discussion of the current industrial unrest in the north might be what was needed to settle the discomfort in his trousers.

  Before he could decide whether he had the wits for a spirited political discussion or should opt for bottled spirits instead, an elegant hand gripped his sleeve.

  ‘We should dance, Your Grace.’

  Veronica’s practiced throaty purr right by his ear grated on his nerve endings. That took care of his personal problem.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For appearances’ sake,’ she snapped. ‘The rumor is already circulating I’m persona non grata in my own home!’

  Her pale green eyes spat flames at him, and unbelievably he felt heat of a different kind flaring up at him, leaving him cold to his core. It was increasingly difficult to understand how his younger self had been so blinded, so duped. With awful clarity he saw what must be done.

  ‘You are,’ he ground out, taking a dishonorable amount of satisfaction from the shock in her eyes.

  ‘You’ll not step into Wolverton Castle—ever again—and you’ve one month to vacate the Dower House. You have an estate in Derbyshire and a house in London. All future communications will be handled through Lowrie, my man of business in Regent Street.’

  Abruptly turning his back on the venom spearing from her eyes, he strode down the room to join a group of gentlemen who naturally opened their ranks to includ
e him in their discussion.

  …

  Her feet and legs ached from dancing. Her face hurt from smiling. Since he’d left her with her mother, Dom had only returned to her side briefly to make sure she was holding up, then disappeared again, to dance or stand with a group of gentlemen, where he appeared to listen though rarely offered anything to the discussions.

  When would it all end? What would she do when it did?

  ‘Are you all right, Sher? Truly?’

  Mama again, suddenly in a fluster of belated concerns for her virgin daughter facing her wedding night.

  ‘I’m truly all right,’ she reiterated for the third time, wishing she had the nerve to tell her mother Dom had taken care of the virginity part at least. Wished she could say, No, she wasn’t all right! What would she do if Dom insisted on—seeing her—naked?

  Jassie had offered to promenade with her if she wanted to talk, no doubt offering support and advice. She couldn’t look at Jassie without seeing her dashing that tear from her cheek. What had they been discussing?

  Her cousin, Lord Parmenter, had belatedly dragged himself away from the group of young bucks more interested in imbibing as much of Wolverton’s wine stock as possible, than in any other social responsibilities, and insisted with flowery and drunken blandishments, she dance with him.

  Lacking the energy to talk him out of the notion, she’d complied and didn’t know whether to be vastly relieved or to panic when Baxendene, Windermere, and Knightsborough practically marched Dom onto the floor to intercept her.

  ‘T’is time!’ Bax loudly intoned, ‘and in keeping with the ancient medieval traditions of Wolverton, we’ll see the bride and groom properly bedded!’

  Rolling his eyes, Dom reached for her hands, frozen in midair because Windermere and Knightsborough had firmly disengaged Lord Parmenter and sent him back towards his inebriated friends.

  ‘Humor them,’ Dom said, taking her hands and bending close, as if he’d kiss her there in the middle of the hall. Then he straightened, tucked her arm firmly into his and called, ‘Goodnight all!’

  Several of the younger gentlemen, and even a few of the ladies, made to follow, but Bax effectively blocked the door with his huge frame and held up one imperious arm.

  ‘This,’ he announced grandly, ‘is Beresford family business!’

  ‘In that case—,’ called out Arabella, rising to her feet, only to be halted by Bax’s stern gaze.

  ‘Male family business,’ he added loudly. ‘Besides, you left the Castle! You’re in the de Malmanche camp now!’ he said, pointing at her husband. ‘Briersley! Keep your woman in her place!’

  ‘Never managed that yet!’ Briersley declaimed, raising his hands in mock surrender.

  Under cover of the ensuing laughter, the three cousins shepherded them out of the Great Hall, along the stone passageways to the vestibule of the new house. They stayed close all the way up the stairs and along the upper halls to the ducal apartments in the east wing.

  At the door Dom turned to face his cousins, with Sheri held in front of him, like a shield.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ he said evenly.

  The door behind them opened, he swept her through and locked it behind them.

  Thoughts rattled through her brain like horses stampeding. He’d obviously had years of practice in out-maneuvering his cousins. They were alone. The moment she’d been dreading—and desperately desiring—was finally upon her.

  His mouth—was—Oh God! Dom’s mouth!

  Thinking stopped.

  …

  Forcing himself to slow down, he gently cupped her face in his hands, looked deep into her eyes, hoping she knew she could trust him. Drawing her against his chest and pressing his lips to her forehead, he held her until his cousins’ laughter and heavy footsteps faded down the hallway.

  ‘At last,’ he whispered, dancing another flutter of his lips against her brow. ‘Call your maid—and I’ll be back in—half an hour?’

  Her eyes were huge dark holes in the pale oval of her face and he remembered her panicked gaze just before she fled his study last night, babbling about not being able to compete with his other women. Had she been referring to the paintings or Jassie? Veronica? All of the above, no doubt.

  Please God, she’d not heard any hint of his erstwhile role at the Matrix Club. It had never occurred to him there might come a time when he’d view his performances as the Master of Virgins more as the acts of a pirate than a white knight crusader. Or even to wish he’d never agreed to play the role.

  In her innocence Sheri could consider it immoral at the least.

  He could not have imagined worrying his past would in any way denigrate him in her eyes, or that it would matter so much.

  Patchett had left a lamp turned low on the credenza, as always. Leaving it where it was, he passed into the dimly lit bedroom, tearing at his jacket and neck cloth. Removing both and tossing them towards a chair, he strode to the window, thrust back the drapes to stare out into the darkened park to the east of the Castle. Scudding clouds cast a fitful light over the stands of trees dotting the open grassy sward.

  The lake and the small Grecian pavilion and boathouse at its edge shimmered with shadows and mystery and he imagined introducing Sheri to the delights of that quiet spot.

  Just the two of them. At night perhaps.

  His hands were almost trembling! It was a long time since he’d been nervous about bedding a woman, a virgin. Although, he’d taken care of the virgin part last night. Had that helped or hindered his cause?

  She was such a dichotomy, his beautiful Duchess. So cool. Prudish, perhaps. And yet, she’d been as hot and sensuous in his arms last night as he could’ve wished.—Until she’d seen the collection of paintings.

  Which, the more he thought on it, strangely resembled Sheri herself.

  What the hell was the time? Crossing back to the lamp in the sitting room he checked his pocket watch again. Only five minutes since he’d been idiot enough to give her half an hour’s grace.

  Maybe now was the time to toss back the brandy he’d not allowed himself all evening. He needed something to help the time pass!

  …

  Covered from head to toe in sinfully exquisite silk, ears ringing from all the advice Maggie had felt it necessary to impart, Sheri hid beneath the covers. She’d thought of dousing the lamp in the sitting room but didn’t want to be the cause of her husband—Dear God! Her husband!—of a few hours, barking his shin on one of the numerous pieces of furniture cluttering the room.

  It was only fifteen minutes since he’d left, promising to be back within the half hour. Time had never moved so slowly and yet, what would she do when he came? What if he—?

  ‘Oooh!’ she breathed out shakily and tried to focus her mind on the furniture arrangements in the room next door. There were far too many small tables and occasional chairs dotted about, way more than one Duchess—however damned perfect or not—could possibly use at one time. She would talk to Mrs. McNulty about it and see if they couldn’t come up with an arrangement of the room that suited her better.

  A small sound in the other room was immediately followed by lamplight moving towards her door!

  ‘I’m here, Sher. Don’t tell me you’re already asleep,’ he muttered, his form looming darkly in the doorway.

  ‘N-no, of course not!’ The words sounded waspish but she was past monitoring anything any more. Her heart, and quite possibly the contents of her stomach, had leapt right up into her throat. ‘You—um—promised! Please put out the lamp.’

  ‘Yeah, I did—fool that I am,’ she thought she heard him mutter. ‘I need to see the layout of the room, Sher. I’ve not had occasion to visit it very often!’

  He came to the foot of the bed, holding the lamp aloft and she clutched the bedclothes with one hand and shaded her face with the other. As if he could see right through the bedclothes and her night rail to the disfigurement of her skin, which in the last few weeks had taken on the hideous proportions i
n her mind of a gargoyle sketch.

  Prowling round the side of the bed like a stalking panther, the scar a stark white slash down his face, he placed the lamp on the side cabinet and considered her for a moment.

  With calm, unhurried movements he removed his robe and laid it over one of the myriad chairs scattered about the bedchamber also, then turned to face her again.

  He was naked! Aroused. And about to get in this bed with her and demand she strip—

  She knew she probably looked like a terrified virgin with her hands clutching at the sheet and her eyes feasting on the male perfection of his body as he stood unashamedly before her. Tall, lean, broad shouldered, narrow hipped, taut muscle definition, dark body hair pointing like an arrow from his hard flat nipples to his rigid, thrusting—organ.

  He was magnificent! Perfect. While she—was flawed.

  He thought her the perfect match for him and she—wasn’t.

  His eyes dark shadows in the harshly sculpted mask of his damaged face, he watched her staring at him.

  ‘You’re not afraid of me, Sher. Surely? Last night—I’m sorry if I was a bit overbearing last night. I was making sure you wouldn’t turn away at the last minute from what we could have—for whatever reason! And not being—inexperienced—myself, I know I gave you great pleasure. Tonight,’ he continued his voice dropping to a deep rich purr, ‘I intend to magnify that, many fold.’

  ‘I—no—I’m not. Afraid, that is. But—the lamp! You promised!’

  She sounded like an idiot. He would think her bereft of wits. But he’d promised—and she wouldn’t allow him to disregard that! She wasn’t ready to risk him turning from her in disgust before she really knew what it was to be his wife, his lover.

  ‘You promised!’ she whispered again, holding his dark gaze until he sighed in resignation and doused the lamp.

  She bit her lip against her own disappointment as darkness swallowed his beautiful form, but then he climbed beneath the covers with her, unclasped her fingers from the sheets and pressed them to his lips, sucking their tips one by one into his mouth, commanding all her awareness.