DukeAndEnchantress_PGolden-eBooks

by Golden, Paullett

  “It’s true. For all our foreplay in London, she’s chiseled ice now. I’m worried she’ll freeze off my man bits with a single scowl!”

  As if testing the theory, Sebastian scowled.

  “I’ve been at half-mast since the wedding, you know. Nay, before. Ever since our tête-à-tête in the British Museum, I’ve been ready to go. But since the wedding, she’s done nothing except tut me, swat at me, and remind me to behave as a duke. I think I know how a duke behaves, and such behavior doesn’t involve having Lord Nimble freeze from the ice duchess’ glare.” Drake patted the front of his breeches to ensure everything was still attached.

  “I’m afraid to ask, but what happened at the museum?”

  “Let’s say enough to warm my cockles. Well, until she went frigid after the wedding. One minute she’s responsive, and the next she’s a nun.” Drake exhaled. “My valet is waiting, but I don’t see the point in undressing. I have a sinking feeling I made a mistake. Do you think she married me for the title? Have I been duped?”

  “Do you care? The effort you put into the courtship was laughable, and you flaunted your title to attract her. Honestly, I didn’t think you cared who you married, not with your marchioness waiting in the wings.”

  At the mention of Maggie, a widow fifteen years his senior, he stiffened, not from pleasure but discomfort. He hadn’t seen her in more than six months and certainly hadn’t notified her he was bringing home a wife.

  “You wound me yet again, cousin. I want a wife who enjoys me. Wouldn’t that be a pretty package? A wife and love all in one. I’d much rather that than a title hunting woman who detests me. Producing an heir doesn’t sound nearly as appealing with someone who has her eyes shut, hoping it’ll end quickly. I’d rather not visit that bed. No, I want all or nothing. I’ll not force myself on a wife who doesn’t want me. It’s Mother who cares about the lineage, not me. I want—well, forget it.”

  Defeated, he took another pinch from his gold box and stood. “Time of reckoning.”

  Sebastian nodded and waved Drake out the door.

  Drake truly wanted tonight to be magical. He wanted to fall into a lustful fit of lovemaking that lasted until dawn. He wanted her to undress him one article at a time in sensual seduction. Those long eyelashes, slender figure with pert, apple-sized breasts, the rich brown of her eyes—yes, Charlotte was by far the most attractive woman he had met, and he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life loving her in every way their bodies could imagine. While she might have been a hasty choice given the tick-tock to the end of the Season, he had been confident of his selection. His attraction to her couldn’t be denied.

  Tonight would be a turning point. He could feel it. He would confirm in her responsiveness if she married his title or him. If she kept her eyes open, then she married him. Eyes closed, she married his title. Tonight would set the precedence for their future together.

  As his leaden feet brought him up the inn’s staircase, Drake hoped beyond words he would open the door to his minx rather than the ice duchess.

  Chapter 3

  Beatrice combed Charlotte’s hair until the short strands shone in silky waves.

  “You’re so lucky,” the maid crooned in her Cornish accent. “Not a woman in England doesn’t wish to be you tonight, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  “I do mind.” Charlotte snarled, her stomach tied in knots.

  Ignoring her mistress’ retort, Beatrice laid down the brush and walked to the bed, smoothing the covers and turning down the sheets. “Here, sit on the bed until he comes. With the door facing it, you’ll be his first sight, a vision of loveliness.”

  Charlotte stared at her reflection in the dressing mirror, not confident she agreed with that assessment. Despite the attention she had garnered during the Season, the face looking back at her was still plain Charlotte, not a vision of loveliness, not an elegant duchess of striking beauty, not even a lovesick wife. Just plain Charlotte, worry lines knitting her brow and a frown creasing the edges of her mouth.

  Oh, botheration. Where was her aunt when she needed her? Aunt Hazel had been like a mother to her. Charlotte’s sister Lizbeth, seven years older, had helped Papa raise her, but Aunt Hazel had stepped in as a mother figure, hiring dance tutors, music instructors, elocution coaches, and all else a young woman needed. Aunt Hazel had not, however, taught Charlotte what occurred between a husband and wife. For that lesson, she wanted her aunt more than anyone on earth.

  As though seeing Charlotte’s expression for the first time, Beatrice rushed over, taking Charlotte’s hands in her own.

  The patting of her hand did little to still Charlotte’s nerves. “No need to worry, Your Grace. All married women do it. It’s natural between a husband and wife, it is. And you’re a lucky one with a handsome husband. Smile away your worries, then come sit on the bed so I can arrange your gown all becoming like.”

  Charlotte obeyed.

  Her maid moved Charlotte’s legs and limbs until one arm propped her up, her legs tucked to the side. The lace and silk chemise wrapped snugly around her body, emphasizing her assets.

  She felt ridiculous.

  “How long am I supposed to pose like this?”

  “Until he arrives, Your Grace. I’ll be on my way now. He might stay through the night, you know, but if he leaves, I’ll attend you with a hot bath.” She smiled encouragingly, curtseyed, and then shut the door behind her.

  Ridiculous. Nothing could be more ridiculous than this.

  Charlotte could taste her nervousness, bitter and acrid on her tongue. Too much hung in the balance—a perfect duchess, a perfect wife, a perfect lover. If she didn’t fulfill his needs tonight, he might find her unsuitable. Facing the loss of dignity was too much.

  But then, what if she did satisfy him? Would he make a grand joke of it? Tease her in front of his cousin for the length of the journey? How mortifying! Oh, she couldn’t go through with this. The two possible outcomes were both undesirable. Humiliate herself by dissatisfying him or be humiliated later by satisfying him.

  The room compounded her worries. He’d obviously gone to a great deal of trouble to have the inn prepared for them in advance. The dinner had been nothing short of decedent with the inn’s finest dining room decorated with the Annick coat of arms and liveried footmen. Her bedchamber was decorated with embroidered linens, vases of flowers, and enough candles to light every house in town. However flattered she should feel, it only increased her anxiety. She couldn’t possible meet his expectations.

  Charlotte’s arm tingled, numb from holding her weight. Flexing her wrist, she cringed at the sudden sensation of blood flow.

  It didn’t matter that she had married her duke charming, not if she couldn’t be perfect for him. If only she could be herself, but that wasn’t good enough, not for a man of such renowned experience and prestige. She’d been daft to shoot for the stars, for she could never shine brightly enough.

  Tears welled. Never had she felt so alone. Blinking away the tears, she tried to muster courage for what lay ahead.

  Couldn’t there be a bell she could sound to alert him of her readiness, to initiate this ceremony so she could be done with it? The quicker the better. Chewing her bottom lip in anticipation of her husband’s arrival, she waited. If only she could go to him on her terms.

  A knock. A soft, tentative tap, thrice on the bedchamber door.

  She bit her lip so hard she drew blood.

  At the sight of Drake’s face when he peeked around the door and the taste of iron from her bleeding lip, she shrieked and leapt off the bed, running for the dressing screen in the corner.

  The screen separated her from him, protecting her from the unknown, from the inevitability of the marriage bed. To control her sudden shivering and shield herself, she crossed her arms, nails biting into flesh as she hugged her shoulders.

  His booted steps creaked the
wooden floors. Then came the sound of scraping, weak bedposts protesting from added weight.

  The thought of him sitting on the bed sent that strange surge of warmth through her body, the same warmth she felt earlier in the garden. Wetness saturated the triangle between her legs. She certainly couldn’t face him now. He would think something was wrong with her! She flushed with shame and wondered why she felt like this, why her stomach flip-flopped and her limbs shook.

  Oh, botheration.

  “Charlotte?”

  He wanted his wedding night. Quivering arms clung to her remaining reserve of dignity.

  “I’m not coming out!” Her response resonated more confidently than she felt.

  His weight shifted on the bed, scraping post against wood again. “I know you’re nervous, but it’s only me.” After a pause, he added, “I thought we could talk.”

  “Talk?” She knew better than to assume marriage was consummated with talking. “About what?”

  “Anything. Everything. I only want to talk. I miss your babbling brook of conversation.”

  Dizziness threatened her balance. She stared at the floor to remain steady.

  If she waited him out, maybe he would give up and leave, then she could sleep in peace without having proven to him he had chosen the wrong bride, a dull, inexperienced girl. In the lengthening silence, a few divots in the floorboards distracted her. She tried to fit her big toe into the holes, anything to occupy her mind.

  “What’s your favorite piece of music?” he asked, his voice a deep rumble in the silent room. “Charlotte?”

  “Are you angry with me?” she blurted.

  “I’m not angry. I want to talk about music.”

  He didn’t sound angry, rather conversational, as though they weren’t sharing a bedroom with her hiding behind a screen and wearing nothing but a thin chemise.

  “I, um, I like Mozart, although it’s difficult to get his sheet music in Cornwall. Sonata in C is my new favorite. Why are you asking me about music when you know perfectly well I’m hiding from you?”

  She heard him chuckle, a throaty reverberation.

  “I confess,” Drake replied, “I’m not a fan of Mozart, but I respect him. Would be difficult not to respect genius. Tell me, Charlotte, what do you like about the sonata?”

  She felt even more ridiculous standing behind a screen than she had posing on the bed. Couldn’t she drum up the courage to leave the safety of the screen? They were, after all, only talking about music.

  “I like the sonata for the agility required. I feel skilled when I play it, though I’m not skilled. Not really. But I like to feel skilled. If that makes sense.”

  The conversation emboldened her, a bit of normalcy in these foreign circumstances. “Sonata no. 18 is a favorite, as well,” she continued, taking a single step towards the edge of the screen.

  “May I pour you a drink? You could come out and sit with me, tell me more.”

  She bit her swollen lip, wincing. “Only if you promise you’re not angry.”

  “I promise. I wish only to spend the evening with a beautiful woman. Will you make my wish come true?”

  Undecided how best to proceed but knowing she couldn’t stand behind a screen all night, she stepped out.

  Drake sat at the edge of the bed, fully dressed. Why hadn’t he changed clothes? Had he truly come to talk without intending for more? Somehow that seemed more insulting than reassuring.

  When she hesitated, he winked and walked across the room to retrieve the bottle of wine.

  The balls of her feet padded across the floor, taking her to the most undignified location in the room—the bed. The mattress sank as her weight met tired stuffing.

  Watching him pour the wine, she noticed the stiffness of his spine, the tight rigidity of his shoulders. He only acted at ease, she mused. He was as tense as she.

  Returning to her, he handed her a glass before perching on the edge, drawing a leg onto the bed to face her comfortably.

  “You’re beautiful, Charlotte.” His eyes reflected the candlelight, blue wicks dancing. For the moment, he was as dazzling as he’d been in London.

  “Thank you. You are, as well,” she admitted in a hoarse whisper.

  He sniggered. “Just what every man wants to hear.”

  She stared into her wine glass and swirled the liquid. Fruity overtones wafted up, a burst of bright aroma, earthy to her nostrils. A sip rewarded a fine texture, a strong core of raspberry, and soft, almost velvety tannins. Nursing the glass, she sipped until there was no more to sip.

  Without warning, he reached up and touched her hair, wrapping a strand around his finger before letting it unravel. She watched him watching her.

  “Have you played Sonata in D for four hands?” he asked.

  It took her a moment to track their conversation back to Mozart, as lost as she had been in his eyes, the proximity of his hand, and the wine.

  She giggled. “Of course I haven’t played it. I don’t have four hands. Silly!”

  In hushed tones that tickled her ears, he said, “I meant with someone by your side.” He took her empty glass and set it on the floor. “We could, if you’d like, play it together sometime.”

  He reached out to her again, tracing her jaw with his fingertips. The last time, he had worn gloves. This time, his hands were bare. Rough fingertips scratched against her skin.

  Surprised, and a tad unnerved, she took his hand in hers and rolled his fingers over to study them. Calluses etched the tips of his fingers. Deep, rough calluses. Gentlemen didn’t have calluses.

  “Violin.” He muttered.

  “You play the violin?” Charlotte asked, incredulous not to know this about him. “Is that something dukes do?”

  “It’s something I do. Father thought it would improve my discipline, curb my reckless, youthful tendencies, he used to say. Mother hated it. She insisted I play on the far side of the house so she wouldn’t hear it. I doubt she knows I still play. May I kiss you?”

  His question startled her, especially after such a confession. His hand still cradled in hers, she nodded.

  The mattress sloped between them as he leaned forward. His lips brushed hers, her bottom lip stinging at the contact. Chastely, his mouth rested against hers, a tender kiss, so unlike what she had expected.

  Her cheeks warmed the longer he held himself to her mouth, the heat spreading down her neck and through her chest. He tasted of raspberries. This was the Drake she’d known in London, not the crude rogue who made light of intimacy and embarrassed her in front of others, but the gentle lover who made her feel beautiful.

  Drake took her hands into his as he retreated, stirring her from the bliss of the kiss. Never had she been so aware of him. She wanted more of this, more of the kissing.

  She leaned ever so slightly closer, hoping he would take the hint and resume.

  “Why did you marry me?” he asked instead.

  Confused, she shook her head.

  “Do you want to be married to me?”

  She stared, dazed, lightheaded, not following his line of questioning. “Yes, of course, I do. I don’t understand.”

  “Is it that you want to be with me in name, but not physically, not as man and woman? Are you not attracted to me?”

  His eyes shown the same hurt as when she’d rejected him in the garden. She’d caused this. She hadn’t meant to, but how could she explain that being possessed frightened her, that disappointing him depressed her, and that him making a joke of it later mortified her?

  “I do want to be married to you, Drake. But I—I would prefer to wait to do the other until we’re at the manor. I would feel more comfortable.”

  “I’m certain we wouldn’t be the first couple not to consummate a marriage, but that’s not what I want to happen. I desire you. I want to be with you.”

  Her lip pul
sed painfully as she chewed on it.

  “I’m not ready. Please, don’t force me. I know men like you are used to having their way, but I don’t want to be forced.”

  He dropped her hands, his expression darkening.

  “Is that what you think of me? You think I would force you? Regardless of what you might have heard, I’m neither a ravisher nor a rake.” His eyes darted from her to the door. “This isn’t how I envisioned our wedding night.”

  Her heart raced. She hadn’t meant to imply he would force her into the act, just force her to decide now rather than later. Couldn’t he kiss her more? If he kissed her more, she was confident she would feel less self-conscious.

  She swallowed against the lump in her throat, her mouth dry. Frantic to be desired and not to disappoint him, and desperate for him not to be angry, she grabbed for his arm but met air. He was halfway to the door before she realized he’d moved from the bed.

  “Goodnight, Charlotte,” he said without turning to look at her.

  With a soft click, he shut the door behind him.

  Chapter 4

  Drake crammed himself into the corner of the carriage, eyes firmly shut. However absurd it might be for a grown man to feign sleep, especially over such rough terrain, it proved a necessary evil. Anything to avoid conversation or equally awkward silence.

  With eyes closed, he could hear the creaks and groans of the wood, the drum of the hoofbeats, and the rustle of Charlotte’s dress. No matter how much he wanted to avoid all thought of her, she inundated his senses.

  The faint scent of her lemon soap teased his nostrils. If he thought hard enough about it, he could still taste her wine-infused lips and feel her skin beneath his fingertips, never mind it had been three days since he last touched her.

  This wouldn’t do. He couldn’t spend the rest of the journey berating himself for not seeing through her ploy. She wasn’t interested in him. She had never been interested in him, had only ever wanted the title. The sooner he accepted this, the sooner he could move forward with his life.