“Will you not sit?” she asked him softly.
Belatedly, he began to extract the chair alongside her from beneath the table, but then it occurred to him that he had no notion of where he belonged. He had never attended a wedding before, and most certainly not a wedding breakfast. Or if he had, he’d been a lad far too young to recall the niceties.
“Where am I meant to sit?” he returned, voice low.
Her family was pouring into the dining room from the chapel now, joined by the minister and Hudson’s sole guest, his steward, Saunders. He had not bothered to invite any of his friends to the wedding ceremony. What was the point in requiring them to rusticate in the wilds of Buckinghamshire at a house that was scarcely habitable? All for a marriage he was entering into so that he could forget it and return to the life he longed to live. No sense at all. Saunders had been diligent and helpful. He was already located nearby. His presence sufficed.
“Next to me, Hudson,” Lady Elysande said.
Her use of his given name both startled and pleased him. He folded himself into the chair at her side, finding the sudden warmth in his chest a curious thing. In the weeks that had followed the signing of their marriage contract, many preparations for the wedding had been made. He and his bride had corresponded through notes sent between their estates. That she should recall he had asked her to call him Hudson was a small victory.
Their every other interaction had been aloof and polite, conducted in ink and paper alone. No more portico or garden chats. No more talk of children. No more touching her, for she was obligingly out of reach at Talleyrand Park. It was for the best, he had told himself. He had not wanted the complications she would inevitably bring along with her. Instead, he had devoted himself to working with Saunders, to visiting his tenants, to learning more about the land, the people.
But now, that convenience no longer existed. She was his wife, impossible though it was to believe he was married. He, a man who had never wanted to be anything other than a Scotland Yard detective. Certainly not a husband or a father. Never a duke.
The assemblage found themselves settled, and Lady Isolde, acting as bridesmaid, cut the wedding cake. Saunders stood and proposed a toast to the Duchess of Wycombe’s health. Another toast went round for the health of Lord and Lady Leydon. Hudson poured the wine down his gullet as if it were manna from heaven. An hour could have passed, or mayhap a lifetime.
He could not bear to take a bite of the cake.
Elysande—for that was how he must think of her now, his wife—glanced at him, her expression unreadable. Her shoulders were tense, drawn in a tight line that emphasized the delicate protraction of her clavicle.
“You do not care for the cake?” she queried, sotto voce.
The cake itself had been an immense, sculptural masterpiece he suspected had been crafted more for spectacle than for taste. However, he had never cared for sweets, and he did not intend to begin indulging now.
“I do not care for any cake,” he explained.
“Oh,” was all she said.
A lone word that felt something akin to a reprimand. And a sudden need—ridiculous though it was—to please her struck him. He forked up a bite of the dessert and found it to be plum cake. Pleasant enough, if one liked cake, which Hudson decidedly did not. The texture of it—spongy and odd—never failed to make him want to gag. Sternly, he suppressed all such rude urges.
His attempt won him an approving smile from Elysande, and damn it, but she was beautiful when she smiled. An inconvenient thing to notice, the attractions of one’s wife when one had sworn not to touch her for the next three months. Returning to London had never seemed more alluring. Grimly, he reached for his wine.
In her new chamber at Brinton Manor, Elysande paced the threadbare carpet, feeling dizzied and anxious and…oh dear! She lost her balance and caught herself on a writing desk, which was as badly in need of attention as the Axminster. The heavy drapery of her wedding gown was not helping matters. Nor was the undeniable fact that she was in her cups.
Yes indeed. She had consumed far more wine at the wedding breakfast than she ought to have done. But her glass had been magically replenished, and like the duke, she had not been in the mood to consume much of the feast Mama had seen prepared in dubious celebration of her nuptials. Her pretense had been noted by New Wycombe, of course. He had frowned at her, brooding as he did, and asked why she had not eaten a bite of her own cake when she had insisted upon his consuming it.
The truth was, she had never cared for plum cake, though she did like sweets just fine. Still, for reasons she could not explain, she had wanted his approval. He was such a different man. Unlike any other she had met. He was far more guarded, harsher, less inclined to smile or engage in frivolity.
The plum cake had been Mama’s idea, and she had hated to intrude, for the duke’s absence and her mother’s dedication to the wedding had left Elysande with time aplenty to devote to her design. Mama had taken such joy in plotting and planning the details of the wedding, even if she had been somewhat disappointed by Elysande’s insistence upon marrying the new Wycombe. It had proven most beneficial.
Indeed, she had enjoyed unparalleled freedom in the last three weeks. Father and Mama had always been relaxed with their rules, of course. But with Father increasingly occupied with his latest prototype and Mama, with flower cuttings and the alterations to Elysande’s previous wedding gown, the one she had obtained in Paris for the purpose of marrying Old Wycombe, why, Elysande had been as free as a bird.
And now?
Now, she was as free as a bird whose wings had been abruptly clipped.
No more flying for her.
Had marrying the duke been a mistake?
Heaving a sigh, she resumed her pacing, taking in the sparse furnishings and pictures gracing the walls. The damask coverings were faded and beginning to peel. The staining beneath a window suggested it leaked and needed repair. Her bed appeared lumpy.
She kicked off a slipper.
Then another.
Following the wedding breakfast, she and Wycombe—Hudson—had taken the carriage ride to Brinton Manor alone. Their journey had been marked by a great deal of silence. Elysande had been overheated in a combination of the warm day and all the wine she had consumed. Her fan had failed to assuage her discomfort. Finally, her husband had opened the carriage windows. She had arrived dusty and covered in perspiration, her lovely wedding gown quite wrinkled from her travels.
The surprisingly small number of servants at her new home had gathered together to greet her, an act which had seemingly surprised her husband. Although she had spent precious little time in his company, one pattern was emerging. He was not a man who was accustomed to being a duke. The aristocracy was foreign to him. That was well enough for her. She had no wish to be a member of polite society and adhere to its rules either.
Her presentation at court had been wretched, as had nearly every social engagement she had been forced to endure. Gentlemen, she had learned, did not want to converse about the way things worked, the manner in which various components fitted together to create something new and better. They did not want a lady who was intrigued by electricity or engineering or anything of interest. They wanted a lady who would dance a waltz without stepping on their toes. Who would curtsy and listen to their mothers and speak in dulcet, measured tones, and never dream of doing anything worthwhile.
Perhaps, in their lack of ability to adhere to polite society’s expectations, they could find common ground.
On yet another sigh, she stalked to the bottle of Sauternes her lady’s maid had obligingly liberated from the wine cellars at Talleyrand Park at her request. At the time, further fortification had seemed an excellent idea. Denning had been reluctant, but she had done as Elysande asked. There was not a glass to be had, though the cork had been helpfully drawn. Pulling the cork free, Elysande held the bottle to her lips and took a long pull.
The wine was excellent. The wisdom of continuing to imbibe when s
he had retired to her chamber for a period of rest before she dressed for her first dinner with her husband? There was none.
But that was not going to stop her. The misgiving and anxiety which had been coiling within her like an asp about to strike was stronger than ever. Dinner with the duke. What would she say? What if he pressed her to consummate their marriage? If he refused to adhere to her wishes?
Her requirements, as Father had made certain to inform her, were just that. Requirements which could be ignored or observed. The only binding portion of the marriage contract was the portion which failed to address her wish to remain childless until she could complete her work. The money changing hands was important. Her wishes for her future were not.
It had been a bitter acknowledgment for her to face. More bitter still, the betrayal by her father. For all her life, Elysande had been treated as if she mattered. She had been born a lady, but her parents had given her equal opportunities for education and freedom. What Royston had, so too did she and her sisters. Sometimes, a compromise had to be made in schooling, but Elysande, Isolde, Criseyde, and Corliss had always been afforded the best education possible.
She took another long draught from the bottle, and then a knock at the door connecting her chamber to her new husband’s shocked her out of her wildly unfurling thoughts. On a start, she reached for the cork, stuffed it back into the bottle, and hastily searched for a place where she might hide the smuggled Sauternes.
“Elysande?”
“Just a moment,” she called, rushing toward the wardrobe and promptly tripping on her weighty hems.
She landed on the floor in a miserable heap, her forehead bouncing off the woolen carpets, the bottle rolling away from her grip. Dimly, she was aware of the door opening and a muffled curse.
“Good Lord, woman.”
Masculine hands were on her waist, rolling her to her back, and she blinked at the sight of him towering over her, tall and majestic and so very handsome. More handsome than she had been willing to admit. His mouth was set in a firm line of what she supposed must be disapproval.
But then she thought of how she looked, sprawled on her back in her wedding dress. Married to a man she scarcely knew—the replacement for her previous betrothed, a bottle of wine rolling away from her, thoroughly sotted. And a bubble of laughter rose in her throat before she could tamp it down. The bubble grew and grew, until she released it. And she was laughing then. Laughing so hard that tears were streaming down her cheeks and she could scarcely catch her breath.
Laughing as her new husband hovered over her, frowning and brooding and debonair in his own wedding finery. He looked rather like a fierce warrior being forced to dress as a duke.
“Elysande?” he asked. “Have you injured yourself? Say something, damn it.”
But she could not. The laughter had overtaken her. She was delirious. And drunk. And she had been married today.
To him.
He dropped to his knees on the carpet beside her. “Wife?” He patted her cheek. “What is the matter?”
Wife.
That was what the matter was.
And the wine.
And the wedding.
And everything else.
“Are you hurt?” There was concern in his face, the first indication that his façade was cracking.
She gasped for breath, dashing at the tears flooding her eyes. “I am not hurt.”
A hiccup escaped her.
His expression changed. “Christ. You’re bosky.”
“A trifle disguised,” she said, and then dissolved into another fit of giggles.
This behavior was quite unlike herself. She had never consumed this much wine in one day before now, nor had she laughed so hard or for so long. There was precious little humor to be found in her current predicament, and yet she could not seem to stop the laughter now that it had begun.
“Where did this bottle of wine come from?” he asked, reaching for the abandoned Sauternes and holding it aloft.
“I brought it…” She paused as a hiccup interrupted her response. “…with me.”
Instead of doing what she supposed he would—frowning at her or offering chastisement—he pulled the cork free and gave the bottle a sniff. “Was it sufficient to make you forget you married a base Scotland Yard inspector?”
His question was enough to make her laughter die.
She heaved herself into a sitting position, wincing when her tightly laced corset dug painfully into her sides. “I was not trying to forget.”
That was a lie though, was it not?
“You did not want this marriage,” he said, bringing the bottle to his lips and taking a sip of the wine.
Guilt lanced her. “I did not want any marriage, not just specifically this one.”
A bead of wine caught on the fullness of his lower lip, and he licked it away. She found herself strangely captivated by those lips once more. It was not the mouth of a detective, nor of a duke. It was sensual. The mouth of a lover. What would it feel like on hers? Would his kisses be harsh and swift, or would they be soft and tender? Perhaps somewhere in the middle.
Why should she care? She had never thought about kissing a man before. Likely, it was the Sauternes and her recently altered marital state that forced the notion into her mind now.
“In that, we are well-matched,” her new husband said, raising the bottle toward her in salute before he took another drink.
How odd it was to be sitting in a heap of silk and lace on the floor of her new boudoir, her husband seated opposite her. This was not at all how she had expected her wedding day to proceed.
“You did not wish for marriage either?” she ventured.
Whether it was the wine that was somehow inspiring an interest in her husband or the candor of the moment, she could not say. But she was suddenly curious to know more about him. She was bound to him now, after all.
“I never planned to marry.” He held the neck of the bottle, studying her with his extraordinary blue-gray gaze. “I was content with my life as it was. However, change necessitated I alter my position on the matter. Why did you agree to this marriage if it is not what you wish, Elysande?”
There was something about the way he said her name in his deep, rich voice that resulted in a stirring warmth low in her belly. She was suddenly aware of him in a new way. The scent of his shaving soap, masculine and musky, teased her senses.
“My sister,” she conceded, thinking to occupy her madly whirling mind with speaking. If she sat here gazing at him, thinking foolish thoughts, she did not know what she would do. How strange her reaction to him was. “Izzy wants to marry her love, and I am the eldest. My parents may be unconventional in some ways, but in others, they remain firmly entrenched in society’s rules. I needed to wed before my sister could find her happiness, and I did not want to stand in the way any longer.”
“Selfless of you, settling upon marriage for Lady Isolde’s sake.”
She shrugged. “I do not see it so. I love her, and I want her to be happy.”
“And yet, sacrificing yourself? Surely that is the definition of selflessness.” He took another slow sip from the bottle, watching her, awaiting her answer.
“If I am selfless, then you are as well,” she pointed out. “You married for duty, did you not?”
“I married you because I had no other choice.”
His blunt candor made her wince once again, but not because of her pinching corset this time. “Why, Duke, you certainly do know how to make a lady feel her charms.”
His lips curved upward in a rueful grin. “Forgive me. I did not mean that in the way it sounded. What I meant to say was that I married you to settle debts with your dowry. Your charms are a windfall I shall happily collect.”
Heavens, he was even more handsome when he smiled. What to do with this new knowledge? Banishing it would be safest, she was sure.
“I shall do the same with your charms,” she found herself saying.
Foolishly.
&
nbsp; Most definitely the fault of the wine.
His smile deepened, causing small grooves to flank the corners of his eyes. “You think I possess charms?”
More heat unfurled, and her cheeks went hot as her gaze settled upon his lips. “Your mouth is quite fine.”
Oh dear. Why had she said that aloud?
“Now I know you are bosky for certain,” he said softly, a teasing air about him.
She felt comfortable with him. The discovery surprised her, for she still knew shockingly little about him, save that he had unexpectedly inherited the title, that he had never intended to marry, and that he had once been a member of Scotland Yard.
“I hope you will forgive me for the Sauternes,” she said weakly.
“I have no intention of consummating the marriage,” he told her, the smile fleeing from his lips. “I will honor your request. Three months. If you were drowning yourself in wine for that reason…”
“No,” she hastened to reassure him. “I was merely…nervous, I suppose. I have never been anyone’s wife before.”
“As I have never been anyone’s husband, I reckon we are in the same territory.”
“I reckon we are.”
And currently, that territory was her chamber. On the floor. How silly he must think her. Another hiccup rose before she could squelch it.
“I do believe some sustenance is in order,” he said wryly.
Once more, Elysande agreed with her new husband.
Perhaps this would be a pleasant marriage despite her misgivings.
Chapter 4
This marriage was going to be torture.
Three months without touching his wife…
What the bloody hell had he been thinking?
Hudson stripped off his coat and laid it on the bank of the large, manmade lake which was downhill from Brinton Manor, and blessedly private, thanks to an overgrown copse of trees. He had spent a fitful night’s sleep, plagued by thoughts of the lovely woman he had married, separated from him by a mere door.
The Detective Duke (Unexpected Lords Book 1) Page 5
