by Eva Devon
Could she survive it? She seemed to enjoy political discourse, but that might change when forced to hear it again and again and again.
He hated the idea of having a wife that he would have to retire to the country. But if he had to keep her away from London for her to be happy, he would.
Georgiana and her sister Elizabeth entered the long salon, both of them dressed remarkably plain. They stood side by side, unintimidated by the wealth and pomp before them.
He liked them both for it.
But he did have to give credit to his cousins’ words. The frocks the Bly sisters wore… Well, they looked little better than servants, really, and that did not bode well if they were to be seen about the halls. He wondered if they’d ever had a proper gown, a gown that matched his standards, in their entire lives?
How the devil had either of them ever been invited into his household for his ball? They seemed so out of place.
It wasn’t that he was a snob. He believed in inviting anyone who was worthy of interest, but it wasn’t often that people of such low financial status were invited into his home.
The gowns looked careworn.
He wondered if Georgiana’s gown had been turned over once before. Such a thing for the future Duchess of Thornfield was almost incomprehensible.
Aunt Agatha offered her hand to both of the girls. “Come, come,” she said. “We have cakes and tea waiting for you. Luckily the journey was not too far.”
Georgiana laughed. “We would have walked. It seems almost silly to have required a carriage, the weather being so fine.”
“Walked?” Gwendolyn asked, her gaze swinging from Georgiana to Elizabeth, certain they were jesting. “Surely not.”
“Of course,” said Georgiana. “Five miles is little to concern us. Why, we can cover such ground in a little over an hour. Don’t you own a good pair of boots?”
“Boots,” Emma echoed. “Do young ladies own boots?”
Elizabeth’s lips twitched. “Indeed they do make them in ladies’ sizes.”
Georgiana eyed the two young aristocrats as if she couldn’t decide which was the more odd. “Don’t you like to go walking in the country?”
Gwendolyn gave a little shudder. “No, I like to walk about the house.”
Georgiana cocked her head to the side. “How very interesting. It is a beautiful house, so I suppose I can understand that. But the Yorkshire Dales are exceptionally exquisite. You should give them a try.”
“But my dear,” ventured Emma, “don’t you find the mud to be rather difficult to get about in? The state of one’s dress, you know.”
Georgiana grinned. “I do not overly worry about the state of my dress, not when there are such beautiful sights to be seen.”
She was a bold thing, Georgiana, and Edward could not help but admire it. He loved the Yorkshire Dales, as well. If he had his way, he would have spent most of his life out upon them. Perhaps that was one thing that they could share in common.
Thank God that there might be one thing, and a general dislike of company.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be all terrible.
He would have to take her out for the fresh air and see if they could enjoy a bit of stomping over the heather.
Quite suddenly and inappropriately, he envisioned himself laying her back in the heather, the purple flowers blooming, their fragrance wafting around them, as he slipped his hands to the hem of her gown.
He’d slide that hem upward, skimming her stocking knees until at last, he’d bare her pale thighs. He’d take her mouth with his, the world would disappear, and he’d slip his fingers into—
“My dear boy, are you quite well?” Aunt Agatha burst into his thoughts.
Georgiana cocked her head to the side. “Yes. You’re looking, well, as if you’re gathering wool. Pleasant wool, but wool all the same. Are you thinking of anything particularly interesting?”
If he had thought her to be a bit more experienced, he would have wondered if she knew exactly what he was thinking.
But she did not. Of that he was certain.
He was damned glad Montrose was out riding, because that devil would have known and Edward never would have heard the end of it.
“Oh, just considering the accounts of next year’s coal.”
“Do you consider such things?” she asked, puzzled. “I would have thought you’d left that to your man of business.”
Clearing his throat, he took up his quill and sat abruptly again before his desk. “I do not leave any details to any of my people of business. I supervise everything.”
“Oh dear. That committed to detail, are you? I must confess, I am not overly fond of details.”
“That will have to be remedied,” he said, “given that you are going to be a duchess.”
“Oh dear,” she said again, “so much to be remedied about my person. We shall have to find something to remedy in you, as well, so that I do not receive all the benefits of a good education.”
Everyone but Edward gasped.
It should have been horrifying, and perhaps it was for everyone else, but he could not stop a smile from tilting his lips.
He never smiled in company. It was a shocking thing, but he could not stop himself. “I concur,” he replied evenly. “I shall have to endeavor to be edified.”
“I’m glad you think so, Your Grace.” She arched a positively wicked brow. “And we shall, therefore, improve together, as one would hope a married couple might.”
Chapter Twelve
Georgiana stared at herself in the mirror, adjusted her pale blue bodice, and then shrugged her shoulders. Her gown was three seasons out of date, but it allowed for a bit more freedom of movement than some new fashions did, which she quite liked.
Besides, it was best as one could do when one’s yearly income likely was not even equal to the boot black expenditures of the duke.
And even if she had funds for an elegant frock, there was little she could do about her general appearance. Her hair always refused to stay in a tightly coiffed arrangement. Her nose was a trifle too pert and her lips were always wanting to slide into a grin. Curls did insist on tumbling out, and she had little height to boast about.
So, she gave herself one more nod of encouragement, turned on her slippered heel, and headed out of the chamber that was larger than all of the rooms on the entire top floor of her home combined.
It was a bit intimidating, that bed chamber, what with its giant four-poster bed, silk hangings, and ancient ornaments. She hoped to goodness it wouldn’t be her room in the future, for she felt as if she were to speak a single word, her voice might be lost entire in the cavern.
And she did not have a small voice.
In fact, the fireplace alone was so vast she could have stood up in it.
And that four-poster monstrosity of a bed? She was certain that all of her sisters and herself could sleep in it and still not meet each other in the night.
One did not need such a large bed, did they?
What possible purpose could such a large bed serve except to proclaim one’s importance?
She headed out into the slightly dark corridor, looked left then right, and considered. Which way? A keen sense of direction was not one of her finer points.
She could walk quite well in the countryside without any fear of losing her way. For the sky, trees, hills, and rivers were good indicators of which direction she should head, but the house? If one could call such an enormous building a house.
Yes, the house was a mystery to her.
Should she turn left toward the painting of that Restoration merry cad, Charles II? Or should she turn right toward the series of paintings depicting the Glorious Revolution?
She gave it little thought and decided the only way to throw herself was in the direction of the Glorious Revolution. After all, that had been the moment of
England’s great change, and change was always a good thing.
Well, not always, but she was doing her very best to have a positive view of dramatic sweeps of circumstance. For her life had changed entirely and would certainly change more.
She charged down the hall, determined not to be late for dinner. She didn’t like to be late for things, even if she was forgetful.
According to the golden French clock upon the mantel in her chamber, she had left several minutes early… In case she did lose her way. Despite the fact that she had studied the plans of the house, she had yet to go into several wings. The guest chambers were one such area, and the castle was an undeniable labyrinth.
Her slippers pattered lightly along the woven carpet. It was a beautiful runner. A burgundy and blue. She nearly tripped, studying its patterns, she admired them so much. To think one could have a carpet that was more beautiful than the entire floor of her own home.
It was a revelation, and she wondered if it was a good thing or a bad thing, but she supposed in the end, it didn’t matter. It was a work of art, that carpet, and she couldn’t find any fault with it. And art was always to be lauded. Besides, it made her heart positively glow.
She wondered about the hands that had made it in a far-off place and how it had come to England.
It was an adventure she could not dream of. Not really. Only her imagination could let her slip away and think of such a thing. All of her life, it had never been possible, the idea of traveling to far-off places or having journeys. She’d been content with her books out of necessity, and she was still content.
But there was no denying she was on an adventure now. Of course, it was not the sort that she might’ve imagined for herself. Taking on the role of duchess was an adventure that she did not desire, but it was an adventure, nonetheless.
After she took one flight of stairs downward, she reached the landing and was met with another decision. There was a corridor leading left, and a corridor leading right. She closed her eyes for a moment then chose the one that led to the left.
But after several moments of walking through many rooms that opened one to another, she was no closer to where she was supposed to be.
What a bother. Would she spend half her life as mistress here just learning her way around?
She needed to find someone, she supposed, and ask if she was even headed in the right direction, lest she wander until she turned into a forlorn skeleton.
Upon further thought, however, she doubted she’d ever be covered in dust here, let alone be left to become a skeleton. There wasn’t a single speck of dust anywhere that she could see.
If she was very lucky, then, a servant with an ever ready feather duster would find her in due course.
She barged her way down through a pair of symmetrical doorways, until at last she found herself in a beautiful room with green brocade curtains. She hesitated; it had such a beautiful, masculine appeal that she found herself wishing to linger and bask among the cherry wood furniture. Pastels were nice enough, but there was something rapturous about the rich, bold colors surrounding her.
Her mouth opened ever so slightly as she peered at the towering paintings of men dressed in red, green, purple, and blue. Earrings dripped with jewels and pearls.
And she realized that they were all men from the time of Elizabeth I. A time when a powerful woman had ruled. And then, much to her horror, she turned to the right and realized she was in someone’s bedroom. There stood a bed even larger than the one in her room. If she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, she wouldn’t have believed it possible.
It looked as if an entire regiment of soldiers might be able to sleep in it.
Curtains draped the elaborately carved pillars. Birds danced in that wood, surrounded by beautifully engraved leaves and berries. It looked as if the carvings might suddenly come alive. And she wondered, if she were to lie in such a bed, if she might spend hours upon hours studying those things, could she imagine them springing into flight?
“You’re in the wrong place again.”
Sheer horror crashed through her at the sound of that voice. The dark, richness of it sent a simultaneous wave of undeniable pleasure through her.
She tensed and turned quickly.
“Your Grace,” she forced herself to acknowledge before she gave a shaky curtsy. “I do seem to be making a habit of it, don’t I?”
“Indeed you do,” he growled, his voice in his chamber moodier, stronger. More provocative. He stood before her in his unlaced linen shirt, his dark breeches clinging to his powerful legs. “We shall have to remedy that.”
“There’s already so much to remedy,” she quipped, “but your house is extremely large. And I do find myself getting lost in it.”
“We shall have to give you a more detailed map,” he drawled, eyeing her up and down.
“Perhaps a tour instead,” she offered, before licking her lips, “would be more helpful.”
His gaze immediately went to her lips, and something changed in his stance, as if he was somehow, bigger, stronger than just a moment before. “I can give you a tour, but will you recall it?”
“I have a rather good memory,” she said, “if you must know. For instance, I can remember our altercation word for word in your private study.”
“Can you indeed?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.
“Yes. And where is Captain?” she asked, feeling as if she was standing naked before him. It should have been alarming. It was not. It felt…exhilarating.
Still, she didn’t wish him thinking her a complete wanton. She had to distract them both—and not with a kiss.
The question of his dog did not deter him as he narrowed his gaze and took her in from the top of her head to the tips of her slippers. “Captain is down in the kitchen, having his dinner.”
“Oh. I’ve been rather hoping to see him.”
“Captain prefers the kitchens,” he stated. “He doesn’t like to have certain visitors in the house. My cousins.”
“Oh yes,” she said, latching onto that as a means to escape the strange, incomprehensible need suddenly coursing through her. “I can see how Captain might not care for them. They do seem a bit high-strung. I don’t think they would probably like a dog like Captain, given the fact that they don’t like to truck in the mud.”
Thornfield stood silent for a long moment, then said, “You’re rambling.”
“Am I?” she asked. “One cannot help their family, can one?”
“No,” he agreed. “One cannot.” He peered at her, as if trying to make sense of her quick speech. “Are you nervous?”
“I beg your pardon?” she laughed. “Well, I am not accustomed to being in a gentleman’s chambers. This is your chamber, is it not?”
“It is indeed. I’m glad to hear you aren’t in the habit of wandering into a gentleman’s chambers.”
“Of course not,” she said curtly, offended that he wasn’t sure of her character before she’d said it.
“Forgive me, Miss Bly.” His dark gaze seemed to cut through any defense she might have made, but there was no accusation there. No, there was curiosity…and hunger. “But with you, one can never tell. So, I shall refrain from assumptions.”
“I do apologize.” She smiled, determined not to let him see how much she was flustered by his semi-clad body. Goodness, the way his linen shirt skimmed his muscled form truly was a sight to behold. “It was not my intent at all. I was simply looking for the dining room and heretofore, I have never been to the wings which hold the bed chambers. And, well, you see, I followed the Glorious Revolution, went down the stairs, made a turn to the left, went through this hallway and—”
“You found my room.”
She nodded, opting to remain mute now lest she truly begin to ramble.
He took a step forward. “In many old houses, hallways are not halls at all, but rath
er the rooms connected.”
“Yes,” she laughed, winding her hands together before her. “I suppose I did know this. I have been in one or two rather large houses before.”
“Have you?” he asked simply, taking another step toward her.
She cleared her throat. “Oh yes. You see, I’ve been to Chatsworth.”
“Have you?” he repeated. Another step across the grand chamber.
“Yes.” She swallowed, tempted to turn and leave. After all, she’d never been alone with a man in his bedchamber. And, frankly, Thornfield was no unprepossessing fellow. His very presence made her feel alive in a way she could scarce fathom. But she’d never been a coward and she wasn’t about to become one now. “It is a marvelous house. I have been to Hampton Court, too.”
“Mmmm,” he all but purred, a remarkable sound coming from him. “Tell me about your experience.”
“You see, I got particularly lucky,” she began, finding she was utterly fixed by his gaze and unable to move from the spot as he closed the distance between them ever so slowly. “One of Mama’s friends gave me a tour, which was quite kind, because I’m most interested in Henry Tudor.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. He was a terrible, terrible fellow, you know.”
His lips twitched ever slightly as he stopped just before her, the tips of his boots nearly skimming the hem of her gown. “Was he?”
“Well, yes,” she said firmly… Or at least she intended to. Her words came out devilishly breathy. “If only some of his people had had the courage to tell him what a dunce he was being.”
Suddenly, the Duke of Thornfield laughed, a rough, deep, rich sound that was so full of amusement the whole room seemed to shake with it. “Do you think you would have had the courage to tell Henry the Eighth what a dunce he was being?”
