The Return of the Duke

by Grace Callaway

  He impaled her deeper onto his shaft, biting back a groan at the deliciously snug fit.

  “Yes, sweet,” he said. “I think you’ll like it.”

  Her blissful moan told him that he was right.

  18

  They arrived in London at nightfall. Descending the carriage, Fancy stared up at the house—no, it was more than that. It was a blooming mansion, the size of which even the dimness could not obscure. Built of light-colored stone, the edifice stood four stories tall, complete with columns, pediments, and rows of arched windows from which light blazed.

  “This is where you live?” she asked in a small voice.

  “This is where we both live now, sweeting.” Knight led her up the front steps, his hand at her waist. “I took residence here not long ago myself. We’ll get used to this pile of stones together.”

  His comment was no doubt meant to be reassuring, but it didn’t quell the fluttering of her nerves. Unlike her, he hadn’t been living in a travelling wagon before this.

  Until this moment, her confidence in their compatibility had been growing by leaps and bounds. The intimate sharing of their bodies and minds had made her feel like his equal. Moreover, Knight had a way of making her feel…special.

  After making love to her in the carriage, for instance, he had cuddled her in his lap, murmuring in her ear, “Do you have any idea how adorable you are when you tinker, chérie?”

  No one had called her adorable before. The fact that he found her so had rendered her speechless. She wanted so badly to be a good wife to him; unfortunately, the role included being a duchess.

  ’Old your ’ead up, then, she told herself. Act as if you belong ’ere.

  Her resolve wavered as they entered the grand abode. Awaiting them in the stunning marble antechamber was a veritable army of servants. She gulped as she took in their formal livery, polished brass buttons winking beneath the chandelier. Although she’d donned her best pink dress for the occasion, the garment showed the signs of travel and needed a good sponging. She also regretted not taking more trouble with her hair; in her hurry to get on the road this morning, she’d wound her thick locks into their usual braids.

  Knight introduced the staff to her one by one, and Fancy tried to remember everyone’s names. It was difficult since there were so many of them. After going down the line, Knight dismissed all of the servants except the butler and housekeeper.

  “Her Grace will need a lady’s maid, Mrs. Treadwell,” Knight said to the latter.

  “I shall gather a list of candidates.” Mrs. Treadwell had salt and pepper hair and a brisk yet friendly manner. “Does Her Grace have any specifications in mind?”

  Hesitating, Fancy asked shyly, “Could you find someone who’s good with ’air?”

  “Of course, Your Grace.” Mrs. Treadwell inclined her head.

  Severin turned to address the butler, a man with an intimidatingly formal manner.

  “Harvey, where is Lady Brambley?” he asked.

  “She is in the drawing room with the rest of the family, Your Grace,” Harvey said, his voice as sonorous as a church bell.

  Knight took Fancy’s hand, placing it on his sleeve.

  “Come, sweet,” he said. “Time to meet the family.”

  Family…or firing squad? she thought, swallowing.

  Although Knight’s face was impassive, the bunched muscles of his forearm quivered beneath her fingertips. He was as apprehensive about the meeting as she was. On the journey over, he’d revealed more details about his family situation. He’d told her that his Aunt Esther, Lady Brambley, had supported his claim to the title but was rather aloof and disapproving. He’d described his ambivalent relationships with his siblings, especially the older ones who resented a stranger appearing in their lives and taking charge.

  And now Fancy had to somehow gain his family’s approval. Knight hadn’t put it as such, but she understood how important it was for him to have a helpmate, someone who could bring his family together and guide his siblings toward respectability. It was a daunting endeavor, even for a well-bred lady. For a tinker’s daughter, the task would be Herculean.

  Will I be worthy o’ the task? Fancy fretted.

  They entered the drawing room, and she found herself the focus of five pairs of eyes. On her best day, she wasn’t comfortable with strangers, and she had to force herself to breathe in and out as Knight made the introductions. Even before he did so, she could guess who was who from his descriptions of them.

  His Aunt Esther, Lady Brambley, sat stiffly upon a burgundy settee, her thin figure draped in a gown of black Parramatta silk. According to Knight, Esther had been in mourning since the death of her husband, Earl Brambley, over a decade ago. A sharp-featured woman in her sixties, Lady Esther had silver hair and narrow blue-grey eyes that tilted upward, giving her a feline appearance.

  Beside her sat sixteen-year-old Cecily, a tawny-haired, green-eyed beauty. Her slender figure was draped in a muslin gown with a low neckline that straddled the line of respectability. Cecily had the kind of face that would stop a man in his tracks; unfortunately, her natural gifts were dimmed by her ill-tempered pout and excessive face paint.

  It had to be Jonas, the eldest, who stood posed by the hearth, his arm propped on the mantel. He bore some similarity to Knight in his height and coloring. Yet there was nothing of Knight in the boy’s air of superiority and contrivances. He carried himself like some brooding poet; his longish hair, arranged in a windswept style, kept falling into his eyes.

  The thirteen-year-old twins, Eleanor and Toby, shared a divan. Both were brown-haired and freckled. Eleanor had an open book in her lap, her intelligent brandy-colored eyes owlishly scrutinizing Fancy from behind a pair of spectacles. She had a solemn little face, her hair in plaits not unlike Fancy’s own. Beside her, Toby was eating a piece of cake, pausing to give Fancy an awkward wave that she nervously returned.

  Knight led her to a pair of chairs across the coffee table from his aunt and Cecily and adjacent to the twins. Fancy perched on the edge of her seat, while Knight sat back, his expression stony.

  “Welcome to the family, my dear,” Esther, Lady Brambley, said in cool tones. “It was such a surprise to hear from my nephew that he’d married.”

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” Fancy said timidly.

  Esther’s thin black brows inched toward her silver widow’s peak. “You may address me as Aunt Esther, my dear. I shall call you Francesca for I detest pet names.”

  “Oh, Fancy ain’t a pet name. It’s my full name.”

  Aunt Esther’s gaze narrowed. “How unfortunate. Nonetheless, it is considered ill-mannered to correct your elders. Mind you remember that.”

  “Yes, ma’am…I mean, Aunt Esther.” Cheeks aflame, Fancy darted a glance at Knight.

  He had a slight crease between his brows but said nothing.

  “Now Knighton informs me that I am to guide you in the ways of Society,” the lady went on. “You, in turn, will be responsible for the management of my brother’s younger children.”

  “Yes, Aunt Esther. I would be e’er so grateful for your ’elp.” Gathering up her courage, Fancy said earnestly, “I know I ain’t polished yet, but I’ll work ’ard, and I’m a quick learner.”

  “A quick learner?” Cecily gave a trilling laugh. “My dear sister-in-law, do you come with references?”

  Jonas snickered, and Fancy’s face heated even more.

  “That is enough, Cecily.” Knight gave both his siblings a quelling look. “You’ll show Fancy the respect that is due to her.”

  “I didn’t say anything wrong,” Cecily said petulantly.

  “Hell, I didn’t even say anything,” Jonas drawled.

  “Language, Jonas,” Aunt Esther chided. She turned to the niece beside her. “And you, Cecily, will mind your manners.”

  “Why am I the one who must be reminded of my manners?” Cecily’s face reddened with remarkable speed. She waved a hand at Fancy. “She cannot ev
en speak properly and dresses like a country bumpkin. If I have to wait for her to become fashionable so that she can bring me out into Society, then I shall be waiting forever!”

  Mortification and shock at the girl’s rudeness robbed Fancy of speech.

  “Cecily, I believe I told you to desist,” Knight said sharply.

  “That is all you ever do, brother.” Cecily shot to her feet, her slender form vibrating with rage. “Papa never told me what to do; he wanted me to be happy. But because of you, I have been separated from my dearest Jacques and all my friends in France. My heart is broken, and it is all your fault. I hate London, and I hate you!”

  She gave a sob and ran out of the drawing room.

  A clock counted out the silence.

  Stunned, Fancy turned to her taut-jawed husband, whispering, “Should you go after—”

  “I wouldn’t bother.” The matter-of-fact statement came from Eleanor, who looked up from the book she’d been reading. “Cecily is prone to dramatics,” she said calmly. “Her mama was an actress.”

  “Her mama was my mama.” Jonas tossed a fussy wave of hair out of his eyes in order to glare at his younger sister.

  Eleanor’s brows rose above her spectacles. “Precisely.”

  Jonas’ hands curled at his sides. “Why you uppity little bluestocking—”

  “I would rather be a bluestocking than a rake.”

  “No one even knows you exist, you little twerp,” Jonas retorted.

  Eleanor directed a hard stare at him. “Cogito, ergo sum.”

  “What in blazes does that mean?” Jonas snapped.

  “I think, therefore I am.” The girl’s smile was smug. “According to Descartes’ principle, you’re the one who doesn’t exist.”

  “Why you bloody know-it-all—”

  “Jonas, do not attack your sister,” Aunt Esther cut in. “Eleanor, stop provoking your brother.”

  “I’ve better things to do than put up with this nonsense,” Jonas declared.

  He, too, exited the room.

  “He doesn’t,” Eleanor said. “Have anything better to do, that is.”

  Before Fancy could think of a reply, the girl buried her nose in her book again, seemingly shutting out the rest of the world.

  Silence once again descended, the clock’s ticking becoming deafening. Fancy looked at Knight, who sat with stiff shoulders and a stark expression.

  “Well, Knighton, didn’t I tell you this was a Sisyphean task?” Aunt Esther said coldly. “All my efforts trying to civilize these beastly children have come to naught. It is like trying to spin gold out of straw. One cannot alter the base material.”

  Knight’s mouth tightened.

  “Please don’t be angry, Aunt Esther.” Toby spoke for the first time, his voice high and timorous. “Would you like some cake? The cream slice is very good.”

  For some reason, Aunt Esther’s features turned wary. “No, Toby. No cake for me.”

  “What about for you, Your Grace?” Toby turned shyly to Fancy. “Could I get you some?”

  At the boy’s eager-to-please expression, Fancy’s heart melted. “Yes, please.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good—” Knight began.

  Fancy hushed him, not wanting to hurt Toby’s feelings or discourage the first sign of goodwill she’d had from his family. Toby put a slice of cake on a plate and headed over to her, but his foot somehow got caught on the leg of the coffee table. He tripped, the cake flying from the plate, and the rest seemed to happen in slowed time. Fancy’s eyes widened as the slice arced through the air toward her; an instant later, cool cream and spongy cake pelted her in the face.

  She sputtered and gasped.

  His handkerchief already out, Knight went to her and began wiping at her cheeks.

  “I’m s-so sorry,” Toby whimpered.

  Through the creamy crumbs, Fancy managed to smile at the distraught boy. “Ne’er mind, dear. Accidents ’appen.”

  “But do they have to happen every hour?” Aunt Esther said with an aggrieved sigh.

  His eyes shimmering, Toby hung his head. He scurried to sit back down next to Eleanor, who’d remained lost in her book through all of this.

  “Knighton, you are only spreading the cake about. I’ll take Francesca to her suite to tidy up,” Aunt Esther said imperiously.

  Knight narrowed his eyes at his aunt. “For Christ’s sake, her name isn’t Francesca. It’s—”

  “Been lovely to meet you all,” Fancy blurted, bouncing up. “And I would appreciate your ’elp, Aunt Esther. Thank you for offering.”

  Knight gripped the cakey handkerchief. “You do not have to go with her.”

  “I want to.” Seeing his grim expression, she managed a smile. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Come along, Francesca.” Aunt Esther rose in a sweep of black silk. “Before we are treated to any further surprises.”

  19

  Later that evening, Severin paused at the door that separated his and Fancy’s bedchambers. He felt like an idiot standing there, paralyzed by indecision. On the one hand, he wanted to spend the night with Fancy. On the other, his aunt had cornered him in his study after the family supper, which had been tense even though Cecily had taken a tray in her room and Jonas had gone God knows where. As was her wont, Esther hadn’t minced words.

  “You do not like things easy, do you, Knighton?” his aunt had said dryly. “Now not only do I have to contend with your wild siblings, I have your duchess to take in hand as well. She was supposed to help save the family name, not make doing so more difficult.”

  He’d reminded his aunt that Fancy had been grateful and willing to take her advice.

  “I suppose that is something.” Esther had given him a severe look. “Training her to be a duchess will be a monumental task, you understand. We will need the best of everything: a modiste, lady’s maid, elocution expert, dancing master, and so forth.”

  “Whatever you need will be at your disposal.”

  “What I need is a miracle,” Esther had harrumphed. “Short of that, I must needs rely on my good taste. Speaking of which, I want to speak with you about your manner with Francesca.”

  “Her name is Fancy,” he had said through gritted teeth.

  “A problem I am trying to rectify.” Sniffing, Esther went on, “Couples of good breeding do not live in each other’s pockets. People will make allowances for newlyweds but, in my opinion, it is best to begin as one means to go on. Francesca looks at you with stars in her eyes; while you might find that charming, you do her no favors by encouraging such a blatant show of emotion. She lacks sophistication and polish as it is. Do you want the Duchess of Knighton to be seen by the ton as a moonstruck ninny?”

  Severin’s face had heated like that of an errant schoolboy being scolded by a governess. Yet he hadn’t been able to stem the reflexive warmth that flooded his chest. Did Fancy really look at him that way? With stars in her eyes?

  A tide of guilt had swiftly followed. It was not fair of him to take advantage of his wife’s sweetness when his own damaged heart could not offer anything in return.

  He had cleared his throat. “Of course not.”

  Which led to his present predicament.

  Esther was right. In good society, strong displays of emotion were discouraged, and excessive sentimentality was seen as common. The Hammonds, for instance, had always been self-possessed; their reactions to everything and each other had been pleasant and modulated. Imogen’s motto had been, If you do not have anything nice to say, then do not say anything at all.

  Severin pushed aside the thought. He didn’t want to think of the past when he had his marriage to figure out. Things had seemed so much simpler when he and Fancy were on the road. Free from responsibilities, he had just been a newlywed groom with an itch for his pretty bride.

  But they were back in London now, and he wasn’t just a randy newlywed. He was a duke who needed a duchess, which meant he ought to treat his wife like one. He stared at the thick paneled d
oor between them, the gleaming polished knob, and his fingers twitched to reach out and open the door. To not think about his deuced duties and family—to just lose himself in Fancy’s passionate warmth.

  You are only thinking of your own needs, you selfish bastard, he told himself starkly. If you had married a well-bred lady, you wouldn’t be tupping her every day…and some days more than once. Fancy deserves the same respect, doesn’t she?

  He exhaled, turning to go.

  Then the door opened, and he jerked around.

  “Knight?” Fancy peered at him through the half-open door.

  “Yes, sweeting?” He tried not to notice the fact that she was dressed for bed, her chestnut hair loose and shining. “Do you need something?”

  “No…not, um, really.” She bit her lip, her cheeks flushing. “I was just wondering if you might want, um, company?”

  Her vulnerability loosened the knot in his chest.

  “I was about to knock and ask you the same thing,” he said ruefully.

  “Were you?” Relief filled her brown eyes. “Aunt Esther said separate bedchambers are the appropriate arrangement between a lady and ’er ’usband. And she said it’s always the ’usband’s prerogative to open the door.”

  Hearing Fancy convey Esther’s advice made him realize how stupid that advice was. It was his marriage—his and Fancy’s. What went on in their private lives was nobody’s business.

  “Aunt Esther may be an expert on many things but not marital matters.” He took his wife’s hand, tugging her into his room and closing the door behind her. “Open the door whenever you like; I cannot think of a single occasion when I would not welcome your company.”

  Her eyes were like melted chocolate in the candlelight. “Truly?”

  “Truly,” he said.

  She smiled, so beautifully that his heart gave a stutter. Reaching up, she fiddled with the lapel of his robe. “After the last week, it felt strange sleeping alone. And the bed in my chamber is as big as my family’s entire caravan.”

  “You do not have to sleep alone.”