The Duke That I Marry

by Cathy Maxwell

  Matt acknowledged the compliment but then said, “Grandmother believes this Hardesty was behind William’s death.”

  George sat up in his chair with a start. “No . . . she’s never said such to me.”

  “Was there anything suspicious about William’s death that you knew?”

  “Or that the magistrate noticed? I read the report, as did your grandparents. He broke his neck on one of his fool nags. He liked them spirited and silly.”

  “He was a known rider.”

  “Aye, he was a bruising one. I couldn’t hunt with him. He’d jump anything when it would have been twice as easy to go around. He loved a risk, especially on a horse. But the fact is, sooner or later, you come up against something that has the better of you.”

  “So you don’t believe he was murdered?”

  “I believe that is the wish of a grieving mother. But it doesn’t hold up. Why would Hardesty want to kill his pot of gold? Once William died, there were no blackmail demands.”

  “Which is a bit surprising.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My grandparents would have continued to pay to keep the story quiet. Their reputation, you know.”

  “Or they might not have. I would have advised them against it. There’d be gossip and a bit of scandal, but it wouldn’t last more than a week.” George finished his drink. “You know the whole story now. Fortunately, it is behind you. You are free to rebuild what was all but destroyed.”

  “At a great cost. And for that reason, I want justice,” Matt said. “I need those men you once hired to search again for Hardesty. I want the estate’s money returned.”

  George leaned both elbows on his desk. “That might not be possible.”

  “Then I’ll wring the money out of Hardesty’s hide.”

  “We don’t know who he is. We could never find him.”

  “I want to try again.”

  George held his gaze a moment, and then shrugged. “You understand the sort of men I had to hire don’t work without coin up front.”

  “I will pay.”

  “Thank God for heiresses, eh?” George leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs and half turning from Matt. “And there are no guarantees.”

  “Find me good men, true hunters. Set them loose.”

  George acted as if he thought better of the request, but then conceded, “It will take time, but I will do as you ask. I could weep over what has happened to Mayfield. I confess, I was worried when you took over. I knew what was going on and feared you would not have the stomach for it.”

  “I’m an Addison,” Matt answered. “We do not let any slight go unanswered.”

  “ ‘Stand fast,’ ” George said, quoting the Addison family motto, the one created by the first Duke of Camberly.

  Matt nodded his agreement and stood. “Thank you for your time, George.”

  His cousin jumped up from his chair and bowed. “It is my pleasure, Your Grace. I will see you on the morrow.”

  Matt offered his hand. The men shook on their agreement, and Matt left.

  He was not surprised when he reached his home to find his coach at the front door. His grandmother had returned from Mayfield. Handing off the by now exhausted mare to a stable lad, Matt entered the house.

  Minerva came into the hall from a side room. She held a brimming glass of sherry in her hands. “Well?”

  “There will be a wedding on the morrow.”

  Her relief was obvious, and he understood.

  Now that he’d stopped fighting the marriage, the weight of responsibility that had been his constant companion since he’d taken the title had fallen aside. His money worries would vanish. It was as if he could draw a full breath for the first time in what seemed ages.

  That night, he enjoyed a rare beefsteak and a glass of whisky and embarked on a good night’s sleep—until he woke in the middle of the night and realized he did not have a groomsman.

  He had not performed this most basic of groom’s duties, and it would be a telltale sign that he had not been interested in the marriage.

  Matt jotted a quick note to his friend Soren, woke his butler, Marshall, to see that it was delivered, and then went back to sleep, convinced that he had saved himself from a major blunder.

  Willa had a terrible night’s rest.

  Part of the blame she placed on her hair. At night, she wore it in a long braid that was as thick as her wrist. When her body turned, the braid would sometimes be caught beneath her. She hated being woken that way.

  Last night, it had happened several times, and whenever she woke, her mind would take over with a thousand thoughts.

  Her life was about to change. For the past three and even more years, all anyone spoke of was the man she would marry.

  And now the time was here. Her life was finally going to begin.

  She was past ready. Staring at the medallions and scrollwork on her ceiling, she ruminated on how happy Cassandra had appeared. How content. Willa wanted to be that content.

  Of course, she barely knew Matt. Her husband. His Grace. Her Grace. Her Grace. His Grace.

  Her father was very pleased with her. Apparently, he, too, had been anxious about Matt’s prolonged disappearance from London.

  But now he was here, and in a matter of hours, Leland Reverly could proudly claim he had a duke for a son-in-law. Willa had no doubt that her father would even have calling cards made up that said, “Leland Reverly, father-in-marriage to the Duke of Camberly.”

  Furthermore, the whispers had not been true. Matt was not indifferent to her. He was going to marry her.

  However, what the gossips thought was of no importance . . . because Matthew Addison, Duke of Camberly, was a prize in Willa’s mind. Points aside. He was tall and exceedingly handsome. Why, there wasn’t a woman in London who didn’t crave his attention. He moved with energy. He had all his teeth. He had all of his everything.

  And he had come for her. He’d challenged her decision to release him from the betrothal. She wasn’t naïve enough to believe that meant he cared, but at least he’d noticed her.

  In the dark, she lightly rubbed the pad of her thumb over the place where Matt had kissed her wrist and added another characteristic of her own to Matt’s tally of traits—he was kind. That was a sign of goodness.

  He’d been angry when he’d first arrived. No, he’d been irritated. There was a difference. But he’d listened to her complaints, and she believed he’d genuinely heard her. After all, wasn’t that what anyone wanted? To have someone who listened?

  Last night, her father had stayed home. He’d joined her and her mother for a simple dinner. The kitchen had been too busy preparing the wedding breakfast that would be served shortly after noon on her wedding day. Kegs of ale and whisky had been laid in. Port, Madeira, sherry, and even French wines had been acquired. The actual ceremony at the church would be private and quiet, but, in her father’s mind, the wedding breakfast was what mattered. It was his opportunity to display his power and wealth.

  Therefore, for once he had not minded a boiled capon and buttered bread. Even her mother had acted pleased about the marriage.

  Willa tossed her braid once more across the pillow and, curling up, tried to sleep again. Tomorrow, she would experience the marriage bed. Matt was rumored to be a powerful lover. A line from one his poems echoed in her mind: Lost in her, deep within her, I find solace and grace.

  When she’d first read those words, she’d stared at them, trying to divine their meaning. They were both mysterious and earthy, as if the lover had special powers.

  The man who wrote those words wasn’t a man like her father, who flitted from woman to woman. No, Matt’s poem told her that his lover mattered.

  If that wasn’t enough to keep a woman awake—?

  Especially when she wasn’t quite certain what all would happen.

  She did fall asleep, because Annie woke her at half past seven with a breakfast tray. The house smelled of delicious food.

  “Yo
u should see the rooms downstairs,” Annie said, opening the drapes. “The footmen worked all night setting up tables. They came in by the cartloads. I helped with the coverings. Cream and gold. Mr. Reverly is sparing no expense. Not for his daughter.”

  Coming over to the bed, Annie gave her an indulgent smile. She had been one of the constants in Willa’s life. She had joined the staff as a nursery attendant when Willa was five. At that time, it was said that Willa had been a terror. She hated for anyone to brush her hair, and few said no to her.

  With patience and the practicality and good humor of the Irish, Annie had coaxed Willa into letting her tame her wild tangles. She’d done it by telling Willa stories of mice who enjoyed tea parties at night in little girls’ hair. Willa still wished to believe any snarls and tangles were the result of too much treacle syrup.

  Over the years, she and Annie had made a fast bond, although the maid knew her place. However, whenever Willa fell, Annie was there to pick her up. When the world was confusing, Annie helped her understand.

  And when Willa needed to shine socially, Annie primped and ironed to be certain she did.

  “Did you sleep all right?” Annie asked.

  “Barely. My hair.” Willa rubbed her eyes and yawned.

  “It is more than just your hair that kept you up,” Annie said with a twinkle. “You are about to become a duchess. Proud I am, Miss. Now, eat. A bath will arrive in a few minutes.”

  While Willa nibbled a hot bun and sipped chocolate, Annie pulled from the wardrobe the wedding dress. It was of the whitest muslin, shot through with threads of silver and gold, and had capped sleeves. It was both innocent, and yet a touch enticing—which was the way Willa thought a bride should be.

  The bath arrived with great ceremony. Even though the footmen had been up most of the night and would continue to be on hand this day, their spirits were high in her honor. They were going to be well rewarded for their hard work. There would be extra vails from not only her father but from the other guests.

  Willa didn’t dally with her bathing. Her stockings were of the palest silk and she wore white kid slippers. The shoes also had a small heel, so they added perhaps an inch to Willa’s height.

  Now that she was dressed, Annie sat her on a bench before the full-sized looking glass. “The pearls?” She referred to Willa’s pearl-tipped hairpins.

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  Annie fetched them and put them in Willa’s hand so she could hold them while the maid went to work.

  Thinking about how tall Matt was, Willa said, “I want my hair as high on my head as you can build it. Is there a comb or something we can use?”

  “Let me try this.” Annie wrapped a curl around her finger and pinned it into place with the plain pins from Willa’s other hand. The maid took on the concentration of an artist sizing up her masterpiece. She built several curls on top of each other before adding the pearls. “I like this. You look like a goddess with your hair up. When the duke sees you, he will be smitten.”

  The last thing Annie added was a lace veil that trailed over Willa’s shoulders and down her back.

  When Annie was done, she motioned for Willa to rise. “You are the loveliest you have ever looked, miss.” She reached down and pulled on the dress hem. “Everyone will be stunned to speechlessness when they see you. Especially the duke.”

  Willa couldn’t imagine Matt speechless, but the idea pleased her.

  Caught up in her own thoughts, Annie continued, “You and the duke will be very happy. I feel it in my bones. My nan was one who had the sight and I have a bit of her gift. Thinking of the two of you together, I receive the tingles.”

  “The tingles?”

  “Yes, it is when there are little shoots of awareness all over me. I have the tingles when I think of the two of you together.”

  Willa laughed, enjoying the prediction.

  A soft knock on the door interrupted them. Her mother entered without waiting for permission. She was dressed for the wedding in a deep purple gown. Her hair had been curled, and Willa thought she looked very handsome.

  “Mother, what do you think?” Willa twirled.

  “Very nice. Are you ready?”

  “I have my gloves, and what is the weather? Can I wear a light shawl, or should I take something heavier?”

  “It promises to be a perfect September day. The light shawl should suffice.”

  Annie went to the wardrobe and pulled out a cream paisley shawl and a yellow one made of lace. Willa chose the paisley. She did not like wearing lace on lace. She reached for the gloves Annie had laid out.

  Her mother walked around the room as if nervous. She paused by the bed. “Annie, we wish a moment of privacy.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Annie ducked her head and left, closing the door behind her.

  Sitting on the bed, her mother patted a space beside her. “Your father wondered if I’d had a conversation with you . . . about the marriage bed. He wants to be certain you know what to expect.”

  Finally. Heat rushed to Willa’s cheeks, but she’d been waiting for this discussion. She and Cassandra had always speculated. Leonie had never wished to take part in such discussions. She had claimed to be too shy. But Willa was curious. Cassandra had promised her she would like it. Willa sat on the edge of the bed, ready to hear if her suspicions were correct.

  Her mother drew a deep breath as if bracing herself. “Young women seem to know so much these days. I’m not certain what I need to tell you. What is it you know?”

  “I know my husband expects me to share his bed.”

  “Yes, he will do that . . . for a while. Anything else?” Her tone was brusque. She didn’t act as if she was particularly anxious for questions.

  And yet, if Willa did not ask now, she might come off as silly or foolish to Matt. “I have a hazy idea. He’ll want to join with me.” The word had been another line from one of Matt’s poems—On a bed of roses, we joined, finding our peace in each other.

  “Do you know what that entails?”

  “I’ve seen animals, Mother.” She’d also caught an eyeful of behavior from time to time on the street that proper young women should not have noticed. “But is there something in particular of which I should be aware?”

  Her mother’s gaze drifted from Willa as if she wished she was somewhere else, and then her expression hardened. She faced her daughter. “It isn’t complicated. Your husband will instruct you. It will hurt.”

  “Why will it hurt? I’ve never heard anyone complain of it.”

  “Because of what men do,” her mother answered. “They stretch us. It’s painful.”

  Stretch? Willa had also never heard talk of stretching.

  “Your husband is a very big man. I fear you will experience great pain. You will bleed.”

  Now she had Willa worried. She knew about a virgin’s blood, but “bleed” was more than a few drops.

  “I hate it,” her mother confessed, as if she could not prevent herself. “I’ve hated it from the very first. It is our curse to bear for being born female. I’m disgusted to think I even had to submit to it. It is vile and disgusting and sticky.”

  Sticky? That seemed an odd, and unanticipated, description to Willa.

  “No proper lady would enjoy it,” her mother vowed. “But here is the secret, Willa—because men don’t want their wives to complain or ask questions—I found that if I silently counted backward from one hundred, well, then it would soon be over and he would leave me alone.”

  “You just lie there?”

  “Of course, there is nothing else you can do. Let the duke have his way with you, and no matter what, do not complain.”

  Willa swallowed. “Will I bleed every time?”

  Her mother shook her head sadly. “It depends on how violent he is.”

  “Violent?”

  “Men stir things up.” She circled her hand over the region of her belly, an area far deeper into her body than Willa had imagined her husband would go. “It is not pleasant, Wi
lla. No one has ever said it was. My friends and I are happy now that our husbands leave us alone.”

  Willa thought of the longing looks her mother often sent in her father’s direction when he was going off for his own pursuits. Had she misread them? “Cassandra doesn’t act as if she hates it.” Then again, they had not discussed such intimate things since Cassandra married. Yesterday, they had been too busy talking about the letter Willa had sent.

  “Perhaps she is with child? Men leave their wives alone once they are pregnant, for obvious reasons.”

  Those reasons weren’t obvious to Willa. “The poets praise it,” she offered.

  “Poems are written by men. Of course they would praise it. They don’t have to bring children into the world. They would change their tune if they did.”

  “But some women have more than one child. If it is so terrible, why?”

  “Those poor women are not free to say no to the men they married. Or they can be the sort of coarse creatures your father prefers. Women who are not delicate and sensitive. I didn’t raise you to be that sort.” She reached out and touched Willa’s hair. For a moment, she was the mother of Willa’s childhood. “And I pray that birthing one of Camberly’s babies doesn’t cost you your life.”

  Willa almost fell off the bed at her mother’s startling announcement. She leaned forward. “I overheard you talking to your friends about this. Why should this be a fear, Mother?”

  “You are petite, Willa. It is a part of nature that a ram and his dam should be well proportioned to each other. Still, it is a worry for any of us. Mr. Jamerson at the lending library just lost his wife. The baby survived, but that poor woman did not.”

  “Poor Mr. Jamerson.” Willa was fond of the young man who was always a help when she searched for a book. He found the duke’s book for her.

  “Yes, it is terrible. Childbirth is serious business.”

  “What of Cassandra? Or Leonie?”

  “It can be a danger to them as well.”

  This was not news Willa wanted to hear on her wedding day.

  As if seeing her distress, her mother sat beside her on the bed, covering her hand with her own. “But don’t worry. Women like Cassandra and Leonie will just pop their babies out. It is delicate flowers like yourself who should worry. And one last piece of advice, my child—”