Good Dukes Wear Black

by Manda Collins

  Hermione scowled at her husband. “I am only bloodthirsty in those instances in which it is called for, my lord, and well you know it.”

  From her place at Trent’s side, Ophelia laughed. “He is right, you know, Hermione. You can be most vengeful when prompted.”

  Lady Mainwaring scowled. “If that’s the case,” she said, her gaze going from Trent to Ophelia and back again, “then what sort of punishment do you two expect from me? For I cannot quite believe denials of any sort of romance between the two of you before the Kinston ball.”

  “I will simply not hear any more talk of vengeance and punishment on such a lovely occasion,” Leonora said, stepping up beside her friend. “It is a wedding, Hermione.”

  “Oh, pish,” Hermione retorted with a most uncountesslike roll of her eyes. “The happiness of these two wouldn’t be dampened by the most dire of proclamations.”

  “Be that as it may,” Trent said firmly, “I will whisk my bride away now.”

  “Spoilsport,” Hermione said with a grin. “Go on, the two of you. We will see you at Trent House.”

  Not waiting to hear if his new wife was ready to leave, Trent slipped his arm through hers and hurried her out of the church and into his waiting carriage.

  * * *

  “I cannot believe it’s actually over,” Ophelia said once they were safely inside the carriage. “I must admit, I did wonder for a brief moment this morning if it were all some elaborate fantasy I’d dreamt up.”

  “It is quite real, I assure you,” he said, lifting her from where she sat primly across the carriage from him, and depositing her most indecorously upon his own lap.

  “Trent!” she squealed. “This is quite improper.”

  “I am attempting to kiss my wife,” he said, sliding his arm around her back and pulling her close. Then he lowered his head and hovered his lips over hers for the barest moment before taking her mouth. “Which,” he added between kisses, “is allowed.”

  Knocked off balance when the carriage began to move, Ophelia grasped his coat with one hand and slid the other around the back of his neck. His kiss was every bit as intoxicating as she’d remembered it, and when he opened his mouth over hers, she was ready for him and gave back as good as she got.

  She thought of her married friends and wondered if they’d felt the same kind of contentment upon their wedding day.

  Unfortunately that led her to wonder about Maggie. Where was she? What was she doing today? Was she even still alive? Ophelia hoped that she was, and that wherever she might be she was warm and dry and knew that Ophelia and Trent and their friends were all working to find her. The very notion that her friend might possibly think that she’d been abandoned was almost too much to bear. The sooner she found Maggie the better.

  “A penny for them,” Trent said, stroking a finger along her cheek. “What’s bothering you? This should be a happy day.”

  Blushing, Ophelia recalled where she was. “I am sorry, your grace. Please forgive me. I was woolgathering. It’s just something I do sometimes.”

  “That’s not much of an answer, my dear,” he said with a frown. “And though I do believe you were thinking, I don’t believe it was idle at all. You were thinking of Maggie, weren’t you?”

  How, after truly knowing her for only a few days, could he possibly be able to read her thoughts? she wondered.

  “I was,” she admitted with a sigh. “I had hoped we would find her before we married. But it seems as if every clue we find leads to a dead end. At this point I don’t think we’ll ever know what happened to her. Or George for that matter.”

  “I hate to hear you sound so despondent, my dear,” Trent said, kissing the top of her head. “I wish I had some news that would make it all seem better. But alas, I do not. My fears perfectly mirror your own.”

  “I am sorry to be so morose on our wedding day,” she said, feeling guilty for her sadness.

  “Don’t say that,” he assured her. “Your loyalty and compassion are two of the things I admire most about you. I can imagine any number of foolish ton ladies who would breeze through their wedding festivities without sparing a thought for a lost friend. You on the other hand have been perfectly celebratory. You only let your guard down after we were here alone. Which is just as it should be.”

  “You make me sound like some sort of paragon,” she said wryly.

  “Not that,” he assured you. “I know you are made of flesh and blood, but I want you to feel free to let down your guard with me. To voice your feelings. Without fear that I will chastise you or belittle them.”

  Pulling back a little, she looked up into his handsome face. “You are such a good man,” she told him before kissing him with all the affection he was feeling. “What a great bit of luck that our friends paired up and threw us together.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” he said, hugging her to him as if he couldn’t get enough.

  Seventeen

  Despite Mrs. Dauntry’s loudly voiced objection to the plan, Trent had decided that rather than a traditional wedding breakfast at the home of the bride, they would have a celebration of their vows at some later date when his own family was able to attend. His mother was staying with relatives in Scotland and his extended family was not in town. He’d consulted Ophelia about it and she agreed with alacrity, especially since she felt sure her mother would invite Lord Goring and his parents.

  Thus it was that when the carriage came to a stop it was before Trent House in St. James’s Square—where some of the older families in the ton still kept their town houses. Only the Lisles and Lord and Lady Mainwaring would be joining them for refreshments.

  After he’d presented his new bride to the servants, who had lined up along the front hallway upon their arrival, Trent ushered Ophelia into the small sitting room where he’d instructed Wolfe to show their friends once they arrived.

  “I hope that I will be up to the task of running such a large household,” Ophelia said as they stepped into the room that Trent preferred to the formal drawing room which hadn’t been redecorated since his grandparents’ day. “I must admit that in the haste of our marriage plans, I didn’t think of just how daunting a task it would be to fulfill my duties as your duchess. I believe there are more upstairs maids in this house than there are servants in my father’s house.”

  But Trent was unwilling to let doubt creep into her thoughts. At least not so soon.

  “I have every faith that you will be an excellent mistress to all my servants,” he said, drawing her hand to his lips. “You are the most determined lady I’ve ever met. And I cannot for one moment imagine a little thing like keeping the housemaids in order would get the better of you.”

  “You’re sweet,” Ophelia said with a half smile, “but return to me in one month’s time when your bed curtains are dusty and the chimney smokes.”

  Before Trent could reply, Wolfe entered the room.

  “I beg your pardon, your grace,” the butler said, looking troubled, “but a messenger has arrived and he said the matter is quite urgent.”

  Ophelia’s eyes widened. “Maggie,” she said, gripping Trent’s arm. “Oh, please let someone have found her.”

  “It may just be the man I sent to look for George,” he told her, clasping his hand over hers in comfort. “Why don’t I go see to it while you chat with your guests? I promise if there is news I’ll let you know.”

  She looked disappointed, but nodded. “All right. Go.”

  With a brisk nod, Trent followed Wolfe out of the sitting room and into the little chamber off the hall where he found not his investigator but a footman wearing familiar livery.

  “Sir Michael Grayson asked me to bring this to you at once, your grace,” said the young man, offering a folded missive.

  Breaking the seal on the note, Trent read the hastily scrawled words three times before cursing and looking up at the footman. “Did he ask you to wait for a reply?”

  “If you had one, your grace.”

  “Go down
stairs and tell the cook to give you some refreshment while you wait,” Trent told him. “I’ll have my response for you within the hour.”

  When the servant was gone, Trent cursed again and pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d known that first afternoon that both Maggie and George disappeared that the husband had been in just as much danger as the wife.

  The note from Sir Michael had been brief and to the point. He’d found George in a rooming house in Whitechapel suffering from a gunshot wound. It might have proven fatal, only the woman who ran the house had gone through his pockets and, thinking to gain some quick money, had sent for George’s father. He was unable to speak just now and Sir Michael said he’d let Trent know as soon as he was well enough to talk.

  For George to have survived the war only to be almost killed by some miscreant bent on mischief was infuriating. And there was no guarantee he’d survive his wound, though his chances were better now that he was back in his father’s care.

  It would be both good news and bad for Ophelia, he reflected. Though now, at least, they could question George about Maggie’s whereabouts.

  Crossing to the writing desk in the corner of the room, he quickly wrote out a note to Sir Michael asking to be kept informed of any further developments and rang for Wolfe to take it to the messenger in the kitchen.

  When he entered the sitting room again it was to find that Ophelia had been joined by their friends who were all laughing merrily over some nonsensical tale Freddy was in the middle of.

  But as soon as Ophelia saw him, she gasped, putting an end to the frivolity.

  “What is it?” she asked, rushing to his side.

  “You look as if a cat walked over your grave,” Mainwaring said.

  “I’ve had some bad news, I’m afraid,” Trent said as he allowed Ophelia to lead him over to an empty spot on the sofa.

  Ophelia busied herself with pouring him a cup of tea and piling several sandwiches and biscuits onto a plate. The room was silent as the group watched her every move. Waiting.

  Finally, unable to take it any longer, Trent reached out and touched her arm.

  “Ophelia, please,” he said softly. “I need to tell you this.”

  But it was clear that she didn’t wish to hear it. Even so, she placed both his teacup and plate on the table and allowed him to pull her down to sit beside him.

  “Perhaps we should go,” Leonora said.

  “Yes,” Hermione agreed. “You need some privacy.”

  “No,” Trent said, looking up at them. “I’d like you to be here.”

  “Maggie is dead, isn’t she?” Ophelia said, not looking up from where she clasped her hands together in her lap.

  “No,” he said, placing his hand over hers. “It is George. He’s been found. Shot. In a rooming house in Richmond.”

  “Is he alive?” Freddy asked, frowning.

  “He is, thank God.” Trent watched as Ophelia looked up at him, her gaze troubled.

  “When can we talk to him?” she asked, looking determined. “We need to know what he knows.”

  “He’s unable to speak just now,” Trent said with a shake of his head. “Sir Michael will contact me as soon as he’s well enough to do so.”

  Ophelia collapsed onto the sofa beside him. “I might have known. The first solid clue we’ve found and it is another dead end.”

  “Not yet, it isn’t,” he reassured her. “In fact, it might be our most promising one yet. The fact that someone tried to get rid of him could mean that someone wanted him out of the way. Probably because he can prove definitively that he didn’t sign Dr. Hayes’s writ.”

  “And the good news is that Grayson is still alive,” Mainwaring said with a nod.

  “He’s right,” Trent said, taking a seat beside his wife and, despite her rigid posture, wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulders. “We must account this as a good thing. Though I know you are frustrated and want answers now.”

  A pall hung over the room as they all thought about what they could do next.

  “Do you think this means that Maggie is lying somewhere injured, or worse?” Ophelia said in a shaky voice.

  “I cannot know,” Trent answered her honestly. “But we must assume that she is alive and then we need to work as fast as we can to find her.”

  “But where do we even begin?”

  It was obvious to him that the week’s events were finally catching up to Ophelia. Her usually optimistic disposition had been dimmed by the knowledge that there was no easy fix for any of this.

  “I suggest that we let you get some rest, your grace,” Leonora said after exchanging a speaking glance with her husband. “There’s nothing any of us can do today, so why don’t we agree to speak again tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Oh but … I thought…”

  It was clear to Trent that it had just dawned on his new wife that once her friends left she’d be alone with him.

  “An excellent idea, my dear,” Freddy said, rising. “I believe we could all use an evening to ourselves.”

  Hermione kissed Ophelia on the cheek and whispered something to her that Trent was interested to see made Ophelia blush.

  “Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” Mainwaring said as he clapped Trent on the back. “Tomorrow, of course. I have plans this evening.”

  “So would I if you lot would take yourselves off,” Trent answered under his breath, sparking a guffaw from his friend.

  For a moment he and Ophelia stood at the door. Then she broke away from him and wandered over to look out the window at the back garden.

  He surveyed the elegant line of her back, from where dark curls kissed the back of her neck, down to the flare of her hips and the rounded swell of her bottom. All respectably covered by the deep blue she’d chosen to wear for the wedding. And yet, as enticing an ensemble as he’d ever seen.

  Though that perhaps had more to do with the woman herself than the skill of her modiste.

  When they reached the door to the duchess’s rooms, Trent opened it and ushered her inside.

  The pale green furnishings were old-fashioned, but had been aired out and thoroughly cleaned on his orders yesterday. And Ophelia’s maid had already unpacked her things and made little changes that should make her feel more at home.

  Once they were a little ways into the room. Ophelia turned and straightened her spine. But before she could speak, he smiled and set his hands on her shoulders. “I thought perhaps I’d leave you to rest for a while.”

  She relaxed a bit, but her next words surprised him. “Perhaps you’ll stay with me, and get some rest too?”

  Her eyes were wide pools of blue, and he hadn’t had a sweeter invitation in his life.

  So he nodded, and after removing his shoes, and helping her out of her gown and stays, they climbed up onto the bed. And as if they’d been sleeping together for years, Ophelia tucked herself into the curve of his neck, and slid her arm round his waist, and fell asleep.

  * * *

  When Ophelia awoke some hours later, she was alone. And disoriented. Then it all came rushing back to her. The wedding, the news about George Grayson, and finally the sweet way Trent had curled up with her and gone to sleep.

  A glance at the clock revealed she had nearly an hour until supper, so she rose and went to the bellpull. Asking her maid to draw a bath, she set about preparing for the wedding night ahead.

  Sometime later, feeling rather underdressed in a lovely but nearly transparent night rail and jacket that had been a wedding gift from Leonora and Hermione, Ophelia nearly jumped out of her skin at the knock on the connecting door to the duke’s rooms.

  “Come in,” she called, standing casually before the fire.

  When the door opened and Trent, newly shaved and bathed, and dressed again in black finery, stepped into the room, she gave a mental curse.

  “I knew it would be odd for me to attend supper in my night rail,” she said, mortified, “but Leonora and Hermione assured me that it was all the rage. But clearl
y you are expecting me in an evening gown. Give me just a few minutes, and I’ll be dressed.” As she spoke, she did not look up at him, simply scurried across the room toward the bellpull. But as soon as she lifted her hand to grasp it, she felt his hand on her arm.

  “Do not,” he said, “by all that is holy, change one thing about your attire and I will weep.”

  Arrested by the feel of him pulling her into his arms, she dared to peek up at his face and saw that he was dead serious.

  “Are you just being polite?” she asked, frowning.

  “My dear Ophelia,” he said, his eyes intent, “I have never been more serious in my life. This is my favorite outfit you’ve ever worn in my presence, and if it were not likely to get me thrown into gaol, I’d demand that you wear nothing but this ensemble for the rest of our days together.”

  Something about the twinkle in his eye told her that he was only partly serious. “You’re sure?” she asked. “For it does feel a little odd for me to be wearing so little while you are so well dressed.”

  “I do not wish you to feel odd,” he said with a half smile that revealed a single dimple. “Shall I take off some of my own clothes? Just for solidarity?”

  “Now I know you’re teasing me,” she said, pushing away, but confident that he did not think her in breach of some sort of wedding night etiquette.

  “Perhaps a little,” he said, offering her his arm. “Now, let us go have some supper and you can tell me what else your friends told you about wedding nights. For I vow I am quite eager to hear what they had to say.”

  Unable to stop herself, she laughed, and allowed him to lead her through the connecting doors and their respective dressing rooms and into his bedchamber.

  Whereas her own rooms were furnished in delicate pale greens and furniture clearly made for a lady, his bedchamber was quite masculine. The furniture was heavy and dark and the curtains and bedclothes were dark blue. And had been chosen sometime in the past half century.