Three nights had passed since the disastrous wedding night. Three nights of torturing himself into self-pitying depression. The first night, he had gotten so drunk he nearly missed their departure the following morning and had spent most of the next day stopping the carriage to retch on the side of the road. Not his most endearing moment.
The second night, he had passed out early with a migraine. The third night, he distracted himself with a card game on the other side of town from the inn.
He had only himself to blame, but that didn’t stop him from partially blaming her for making him feel so dejected. His mother rejected him. Maggie rejected him. And now his wife rejected him. There was only so much rejection a man could stomach before taking it personally.
Still feigning sleep, offering a snore here and there for affect, he was surprised to hear the tinkle of Charlotte’s voice questioning Sebastian. This marked her first social acknowledgment of his cousin since leaving London.
Humph. Even his cousin received more attention from Charlotte than he did.
“How are you and Drake related?” she inquired.
“We’re cousins.” Sebastian grunted. “Obviously.”
“Well, yes. I’m not thick,” she said. “I meant by which parent are you cousins? Are you related to his mother or his father?”
“His mother. I only met his father twice,” Sebastian answered. “His mother and my father were siblings.”
“Tell me about her?”
The cushion of the bench gave as Sebastian shifted position, either from discomfort or to face her better. Judging from the pregnant silence filling the carriage and the tangible tension prickling Drake’s skin, he suspected from discomfort.
He couldn’t imagine Sebastian having much of anything nice to say about Mother, for Sebastian held grudges deeper and longer than any person Drake had ever met. Sebastian would never forgive her for reporting his whereabouts to his father during one of his rebellious escapes from the Roddam estate, never mind that it had happened more than fifteen years ago.
“She takes her position seriously,” Sebastian mumbled.
“I hope she’ll like me,” Charlotte said faintly.
“You’re the new duchess. Should be enough to garner favorable opinion,” he grumbled.
Charlotte tutted but made no further attempts at conversation.
Who cared what Mother thought? Drake would laugh if he hadn’t heard the tremor in Charlotte’s voice. What she needed to do was march into Lyonn Manor and tell Mother to move to the dower house before sunset. And make it snappy.
Should she ask him, he could tell her exactly what Mother would think of her. She would be dismayed Charlotte wasn’t from blue lineage, which in his opinion made Charlotte all the more attractive. At the very least, it gave a silent stab at his mother’s prejudices. At most, it gave Charlotte potential for passion, something that would have been scrubbed out of a lady from an early age.
Once Mother resigned herself to that pesky detail of bloodline, she would relish in training Charlotte. His new wife enjoyed socializing, had a head for planning, was admirably beautiful, and acquainted enough with common folk to do her due diligence in the duchy. Yes, Mother would adore Charlotte.
Rather than addressing Charlotte’s concern, he remained wedged in the corner, listening to the hoofbeats while inhaling her scent.
The carriage lurched forward, then, and halted, jarring Drake from his faux slumber. Out the window, he saw only dales of heather. They were still miles from their next stop.
Shaking his head at his wife’s questioning stare, he banged against the top of the carriage.
“Pardon, Your Grace,” called down the coachman. “One of the horses is jibbing.”
“Isn’t it your job to ensure that doesn’t happen?” he called back in irritation.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Drake leaned back, crossing his arms in vexation. However lovely the scenery, both in terms of his wife’s milky complexion in her lavender traveling dress and the darker purple landscape outside, he resented the delay. He’d had enough of this journey and longed to be home. His violin had been left behind for the entire Season, and he’d be damned if he had to wait another week to play.
How had this journey gone so wrong? First his wife and now the damned horse. All his forethought for nothing. He had seen to a flawless trip to and from London by arranging his own horses along the way for the exchanges, all to ensure jibbing and skittish horses wouldn’t interfere with the drive.
Sebastian reached for the door.
“I say, man, where are you going?” Drake asked, not enthused by the idea of being left alone with his wife, or should he say, the prudish trickster.
“Assuming the problem is the horse, not the coachman, I can resolve it quickly so we may be on our way. That is your desire, is it not?” Sebastian arched a brow.
“What do you know of horses?”
“Enough. We had a jibbing horse in the field not too long ago. Needless to say, he jibs no more and is a fine specimen of working horseflesh.”
Before Drake could rib him, Sebastian slipped out of sight. Outside of the carriage, Drake could hear the shuffling of feet and quiet dialogue of grooms, coachman, and Sebastian, along with the rumble of horses blowing and neighing.
He stared at his wife. She, in turn, stared at him.
Her plump lips invited a kiss. Her skin begged to be touched. Her eyes narrowed to warn him to do neither.
With a smirk, he lunged across the space between them. Taking the seat next to her, his leg pressing against hers, he drew her into his arms before she could raise the alarm.
Their lips met in fevered greeting, his tongue demanding entrance. She feebly pushed against his chest, but her lips welcomed him, the embodiment of contradiction. Seizing the moment before she froze them both, he licked the inside of her mouth, tangling her tongue with his.
She tasted of cinnamon. He lapped at the spicy flavor, a starved animal greedy and possessive.
The longer they embraced, the more her resolve dissolved. An arm wound about his waist, the other snaking up his shoulder. His hungry kiss moved to her cheek, down to her jaw, and around to her earlobe.
In this moment, he doubted the prior evidence. Perhaps she did want him and not the title. Perhaps she had been nervous. What did he know of virginal maidens? In this moment, he believed she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Hope blossomed.
Nipping at her lobe, he whispered, “You’re perfect, Charlotte. Beautifully, wonderfully, deliciously perfect.”
She moaned against him, a smoky tone that accelerated his heart.
The horse would be well rewarded with all the carrots his money could afford if the damned thing would continue its refusal to move, giving him more time with this illusive vixen. If only this moment could last, because in this moment, she was the minx from London.
Oh, how wonderful it felt to be desired!
Her neck caressed his lips with a satin touch as he suckled, licked, and kissed his way back to her mouth. With one hand, he pulled her closer to him until her bosom chafed his chest beneath layers of clothing. With his other hand, he worked expertly up her torso towards her breast. She arched her back instinctively.
Feeling brazen, he promised against her lips, “I’ll come to you again tonight so we can finish this. I long to possess you.”
And that did it.
Her body stiffened beneath him. Her lips clamped shut. Her eyes widened with horror.
Well dammit. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. Hell and holy damnation.
Drake cursed inside his head every foul word he could think of, dropping the hand that had been so victoriously close to her breast.
Dammit.
Her head shaking, she pushed against him for release, her lips parting to speak then closing again. She looked like a fish. A cold fish. An
icy fish with a duchess title.
The moment passed. He saw no desire in her eyes. Why she had bothered to return his kiss was anyone’s guess. She didn’t want him, not physically anyway.
Shoulders slouched in defeat, he returned to his bench, crossed his arms, and glowered out the window. He ignored how swollen her lips looked, how red her neck from his stroking, how enticingly her bosom heaved as she breathed. A radiant, ravishing, delectable beauty who abhorred the thought of him in bed.
Ill-tempered, he banged his back against the padded seat hoping to supplant his momentary pleasure with discomfort. Anything to distract himself from another rejection.
Humiliated. That’s how he felt. Humiliated. He knew she’d push him away, but that hadn’t stopped him from hoping she wouldn’t, hoping she would assent to his invitation, to admit her own desire for him. The first night could be attributed to nerves, he supposed, but it was day four of their marriage! Nerves be damned.
It was time he came to terms with his fate. His marriage would never be anything more than a convenient arrangement to keep out from under his mother’s tyrannical talons. If only he could stop thinking of how close he had come to having the wife of his dreams.
Chapter 5
Charlotte fell in love. How could she not fall for such a handsome visage, noble countenance, or refined elegance? She sighed, contented with the new direction of her life, the hope it held now that she felt such adoration, such love.
Yes, Charlotte fell in love.
Not with her husband, although she could easily fall in love with his kiss, his mischievous eyes, even his physique. She couldn’t, however, fall in love with a man she barely knew, a man more interested in begetting heirs than showing genuine inquisitiveness of her, a man who punished her with silence because she was skittish about her duties, a man who made a joke of everything, especially intimacy.
No, she didn’t fall for her husband.
Today, she fell in love with her new home, Lyonn Manor. Love at first sight. The moment she spied the gothic spires through a crop of cedar trees, she knew she was home. From the manicured landscape with its teasing glimpses and enticing vistas to the three-story, seventeen-bay home, she knew.
Teghyiy Hall, her childhood estate, had never felt like home with its quaint and rustic design, the landscape rural with smelly sheep grazing, muddy country roads, and the forever damp sea air. At night, the wind howled. During the day, the salt air assaulted her, abrasive to her sensitive skin. Her sister, Lizbeth, loved their home for she was just like it, wild and unkempt. Charlotte, however, never felt at home there, being neither wild nor unkempt.
Here, at this massive estate with a menagerie of servants waiting in the circle drive, she felt she had come home at last. If she had any doubts about marrying Drake, she could set them aside. Clearly, he was a means for her to come home.
The caravan of carriages halted in front of the line of staff, a line so long it wrapped around the circle, past the fountain, and down the drive. From the carriage window, she admired the flat facade of the manor, its only curves the half-moon tower staircase next to the front door and two rounded towers on either end, partially obscured by ornamental trees. The home, poised regally, plucked at Charlotte’s heartstrings. After the monotony of neoclassical country homes, this manor spoke to her with its reminiscence of Renaissance French chateau and nod to gothic architecture.
“Do you like it?” Drake asked.
“Oh, Drake, it’s magnificent.” She smiled, forgetting for a moment the tension of the journey.
He took her hand in his with a reassuring squeeze. “Your sacrifice in marrying me hasn’t been in vain. All of this is now yours. Seventeen thousand acres, not including the duchy’s one hundred and twenty thousand acres. Pleased to be duchess of all of this?”
Feeling a surge of strength, fueled by the majesty of Lyonn Manor, Charlotte nodded. Yes, she wanted to be duchess of all of this. Emphatically.
“This does come at a price. You must meet Mother.” He challenged. “Are you ready?”
“I am. I’ve never been readier than this moment.”
Lyonn Manor imbued her with the confidence she had felt waning each day of the drive. If she were to be mistress of this, then she could meet her new family with unwavering esteem. While the enormity of the estate and awaiting responsibilities weighed heavily, to be mistress of this, she could brave anything.
They stepped out of the carriage to be greeted by the dowager duchess, a handsome but austere woman who showed little signs of age except silver strands lacing raven hair, a crease between her brows and around her mouth, and a gold-handled cane in her right hand.
The graceful elegance of the duchess awed Charlotte. The woman stood ramrod straight, as tall as Drake, but with an air that towered above them in condescension and superiority. Charlotte wondered if this was to be her future, if this was what a duchess looked like, acted like. Was she what Charlotte was supposed to become?
The woman’s eyes bore into Charlotte’s, black and piercing, sending an icy shiver down her spine. The handsomest woman Charlotte had ever met, yet not a solitary sign of emotion shown behind the granite face, no pleasure at seeing her son return, no curiosity to meet her new daughter, no recognition of her nephew.
Charlotte flicked her gaze back to the manor to renew confidence. The gabled windows along the roofline, of all things, encouraged her to continue towards Drake’s mother, emboldening her to best the beast so she could reign supreme on this estate as the Duchess of Annick. Never in her wildest dreams could she see herself filling the shoes of this woman, but by Jove, she would try.
Drake touched Charlotte’s elbow, urging her forward to face the guardian of Lyonn Manor. Sebastian ambled behind them at a respectable distance.
“Mother, may I introduce my wife, Charlotte Mowbrah, Duchess of Annick?”
Charlotte curtsied and was in turn awarded a nearly imperceptible inclination of the woman’s head along with a thorough appraisal from the bridge of her mother-in-law’s aquiline nose.
“Charlotte, this is my mother, Catherine Mowbrah, Dowager Duchess of Annick,” Drake announced.
With a throaty tone, the dowager spoke, her welcoming words and stone expression incongruous. “You must call me Mama Catherine. You are now my daughter.”
Drake tugged Charlotte’s elbow in the direction of a young girl no older than sixteen, the image of her brother with dark hair, height, and aristocratic nose.
“Charlotte, may I introduce my sister, Lady Mary? Mary, this is your new sister, my wife and duchess.”
After an admirably perfect curtsy to Charlotte, Lady Mary clasped her hands over her heart and said with timid animation, “I hope we will be the best of friends, Your Grace. I have awaited your arrival since I first received word of the engagement.”
Charlotte instantly liked Mary. Lacking the reserved demeanor of her mother, Mary’s eyes sparkled, her cheeks rosy with life. She genuinely appeared delighted to have a new sister, and no wonder, if the only other woman of consequence in the house was a gargoyle.
“Please, call me Charlotte. We are sisters now!” Charlotte squeezed the girl’s hands with friendly affection.
“Enough dawdling,” interrupted Drake’s mother. “You must meet the head staff.”
Two stern figures stepped forward, a tight-lipped, elderly man and a scowling, gray-haired woman. He bowed, and she curtsied, both stiff as sticks.
“This is Lyonn Manor’s butler, Mr. Taylor. He has been with me since I first married the duke. And this,” Mama Catherine inclined her head to the perpetually frowning woman, “is Mrs. Fisk, the housekeeper.”
Mrs. Fisk stepped forward, and with all the courtesy her glower could muster, said to Charlotte, “Welcome to Lyonn Manor.”
In a moment that had time standing still for Charlotte, Mrs. Fisk turned to the dowager duchess and said, as though
Charlotte were not standing there, “I request an audience with your daughter-in-law. If you’ll permit me, I need to acquaint her with the domestic affairs of the household. She will also need to consult with Cook regarding the weekly menus.”
Charlotte opened her mouth to reply, but Mama Catherine spoke on her behalf.
“Her Grace will meet with you tomorrow morning, two hours before luncheon. You will bring to me the menu after Her Grace’s consult so that I may review the changes for approval.”
Uncertain how to respond to this slight, Charlotte stood silently, teeth gnashing.
Did they think her incapable of speaking for herself? Why must her decision need supervision? She hadn’t yet stepped foot into her new home, and already Mama Catherine established her authority as the irreplaceable lady of the manor. The servants would never take Charlotte seriously now.
While Charlotte didn’t have the first clue about choosing menu selections or domestic affairs, she didn’t appreciate being talked about as if she weren’t present or having someone answer for her. She was made to feel like an unwanted guest in her own home. Having her authority undermined on the first day was not a good start.
One glance at Drake to see if he would give his mother a firm set down for speaking on Charlotte’s behalf, not to mention a word to the housekeeper for blatantly cutting her from conversation, affirmed he was too busy playing with his snuff box to notice the exchange.
Catherine dismissed the remaining staff. Looking down her hooked nose, she said to Charlotte, “It takes but one look to ascertain your ignorance of such matters. Nothing will be done without my approval.”
Charlotte bristled.
Dismissing her daughter-in-law, Catherine turned to her nephew, only then bothering to acknowledge him. He stood, hands clasped behind his back, feet shoulder width apart, nonplussed to be forgotten in the background. His reward for being a paragon of patience was a stiff nod.
Not that Charlotte had given Sebastian much thought, but she had wondered if the woman would give the cut direct to her own nephew in front of the household staff and family. Seeing the gargoyle’s behavior towards him was disconcerting. Such coldness to her own family!
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