The Shy Duchess

by Amanda McCabe

  She peered out into the night, at the swaying shadows the trees made against the star-lit sky. “This would be a fine space for a Venetian breakfast on a sunny day. Or maybe a little dance party, where everyone could see the moon as they ate their dinner.” She could see it in her mind, her own party planned her own way. Her own home, where she could run things. Surely she would be good at it!

  “It would also be a perfect place for me to set up my new telescope,” he said.

  “Telescopes? You mean those tube things scientists use to study the sky?” Emily was intrigued. She had read of such things and how they worked, and had wondered what it would be like to see the night sky closer, really study it and know what it was.

  “You know of them?”

  “Oh, yes, I have read of such things. They sound marvellous. But I did not know that anyone at all could possess one. They sound quite—rare.” And expensive.

  “I ordered mine specially made in Italy. My—well, some friends there told me of a glassmaker who can grind lenses to exact specifications. It is nothing as large as something the Herschels would have possessed, but it gives me an excellent view of the stars. I even glimpsed a comet once, streaking across the sky—” He broke off with a rueful laugh. “Forgive me, Lady Emily, for boring you. My newest enthusiasm has me carried away, I fear.”

  “I am not bored.” And indeed she was not. She was fascinated by this deeper glimpse of him. “You actually saw a comet?”

  “Right over there.” He pointed past her shoulder, out the window to a cluster of bright stars in the east. “I wasn’t sure what it was at first. But when I studied it through the telescope—oh, Lady Emily, I wish you could have seen it. It was the most glorious thing.”

  “I can imagine it must have been.” Emily stared up into the sky, leaning her cheek just a tiny bit against his sleeve. She couldn’t help herself. “Do you ever wonder what it would be like to drift away up there into the stars? To escape this place and just—be?”

  She had never said such a thing to anyone before, never hinted of any such fanciful yearnings. She didn’t know what made her say it now, but Nicholas didn’t make fun of her. He just nodded.

  “Of course I do,” he answered. “Doesn’t everyone think of things like escape once in a while? Wonder what it would be like to find a different world?”

  “Not everyone,” Emily said, thinking of her own family. They didn’t imagine being anyone but who they were, which was why they fought so hard to hold on to their place in society. And that gave her a cold reminder of the way Amy had practically pushed her on to Nicholas.

  She turned to face him, putting her back to that fanciful night sky. “You don’t have to stay here with me, your Grace. I know you have many important people you must speak to.”

  He gave her a crooked grin, and that ridiculously alluring dimple flashed in his cheek. Just as it had at Vauxhall, below the edge of his mask—right before he kissed her foot.

  Suddenly weak, Emily leaned back against the window. The glass was cool through her thin muslin gown.

  “People more important than Lady Emily Carroll?” he said.

  “Oh, please, your Grace, don’t tease me!” she burst out. “I know my sister-in-law practically forced you to come out here with me. My family can be so— overwhelming. But I don’t want you to feel obligated…”

  “Lady Emily.” He caught her hand in his, and she was so surprised the words strangled in her throat. “Do I look as if I am easily—overwhelmed? That I can be forced to do something I don’t wish to?”

  “I…” She thought of that steel behind his easy affability, so seldom glimpsed—and all the more formidable for it. “No, I suppose not.”

  “Then is it so unbelievable that I would rather be here watching the stars with you than chattering like an inane fool in a crowded ballroom?”

  “Yes,” she blurted.

  He laughed, and raised her hand to his lips for a quick kiss. His mouth was warm and surprisingly soft through her silk glove, reminding her all too acutely of how it felt, and tasted, against hers.

  “How little you know me, then, Lady Emily.”

  “I don’t know you at all, your Grace. Which is surely for the best, for both of us.”

  His brow lowered in a frown. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean…” Emily closed her eyes tightly. That confusion she felt whenever he was near came over her yet again, just when she most needed to be clear-headed. “Oh, your Grace! Nicholas. It was me, and I am so sorry.”

  “It was you?” he said. He sounded as confused as she felt. “What do you mean? What was you?”

  She opened her eyes and forced herself to look him in the face. He was gilded by the moonlight, his face and hair all molten gold like an ancient statue of some pagan god. She could bear it no longer. She had always been a terrible secret-keeper, except when it came to her teaching, and somehow keeping secrets from him was harder than anything. He was not like Mr Lofton, she reminded herself, or like Mr Rayburn. He deserved the truth from her.

  “It was me at Vauxhall,” she whispered. “In the broken shoe. I didn’t mean anything by it, I promise, your Grace. I’m not sure what came over me, I just…”

  Much to her shock, he laughed. Laughed! He kissed her hand again. “Shh, Lady Emily. Enough.”

  She snatched her hand away. “Why are you laughing? I am completely serious!”

  “I am not laughing at you. You just look so very— earnest, my lady. When I am the one who should confess and apologise.”

  “You should…?”

  “Yes. You see,” he said, ducking his head with a slightly sheepish expression incongruous for a duke. “You see, I discovered it was you before you confessed, and I must apologise to you.”

  He knew? All along? And he had just let her stammer guiltily, let her feel terrible for days? “You knew it was me?” she cried, completely forgetting they were in a public place.

  Emily suddenly felt angry. Anger was unladylike and, worse, unproductive. It did nothing with her family, and it never improved anything. Only work did that. But now she felt—yes, she felt angry! She pounded her fists against his chest. It hurt her hands, but he was so surprised she was actually able to drive him back a step before he steadied himself.

  “Emily!” he said roughly. “Calm yourself. I never meant—”

  “You never meant what? Never meant anything by kissing me, by letting me feel guilty about keeping it secret from you?” She hit him again and then again. “You were probably laughing at me! You and all your family.”

  “Emily, be fair,” he said. He sounded angry now, too. Good—she didn’t want to be alone in this tantrum. His calmness only made her feel worse. “I have told no one, and will tell no one.”

  “You tell your family everything, I know that.” She hit him yet again, that fury spiralling out of all reasonableness. It was as if every wrong, every hurt she had pressed down had broken free and was rising up now to choke her.

  “Emily, please!” He grabbed her hands as she raised them to hit him yet again. Emily jerked away, but he held fast and pulled her close against his chest. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, as if to subdue her with his strength and heat.

  “Please, calm down,” he said tightly, his lips pressed to the top of her head. “I swear, I never meant to hurt you. That would be the last thing I would ever want, to hurt someone again.”

  Emily buried her face in his shoulder, trying to hold back her sobs. Her anger was ebbing away, as fast as it had come upon her, yet she still shook with it.

  She had been vulnerable to him, not once, but twice now, and she did not like the feeling. It wasn’t safe.

  But she couldn’t seem to move away from him. He seemed an anchor in the shaking storm of emotions. She curled her fingers into the front of his fine waistcoat and held on.

  He held on to her, too, his arms tight around her. Was he afraid she would hit him again, start behaving like a shrieking fishwife once more?

&
nbsp; “Did I hurt you?” she whispered. “I’ve never hit anyone before in my life.”

  He laughed hoarsely, his breath stirring the curls at her temple. “I’ve endured worse. I have very lively brothers, remember?” He was silent for a moment before he went on, “I would not tell them about Vauxhall, I promise. Nor anyone else.”

  “I would not want you to feel obligated in any way, just because I had too much punch and acted like a fool.”

  “Lady Emily, I do not feel obligated. But I must say—”

  Emily leaned back in his arms and uncurled her hand from his waistcoat to reach up and press her finger to his lips.

  “I don’t want to talk about this any longer,” she said. “It is over and past.”

  “No, I must—”

  She didn’t know what else to do, so she went up on tiptoe and kissed him. It was soft and tentative, a way to make him be quiet. But the taste of him, the way his mouth felt on hers—it sent her back to the Vauxhall woods and she fell down and down into that blurry abyss of need.

  His hands closed over her shoulders, as if to push her away. Then he groaned, a wild sound deep in his throat, and his arms came around her again and dragged her against his body.

  His mouth hardened on hers, his tongue tracing the curve of her lips before plunging inside to taste her deeply. The fire of her anger turned to desire, and she wanted more of his kiss. More of him.

  He pressed her back against the window, his open mouth sliding from hers to trace her jaw, her arched neck. He lightly nipped at that sensitive little spot just below her ear and then licked it when she moaned.

  How did he do this to her? She was never herself when she was with him! She wasn’t even sure she liked it—it was too wild, too uncontrollable—but she couldn’t seem to stop it.

  She twined her fingers in his hair and dragged him up to her lips again. He went most obligingly, eagerly, kissing her with a heated artlessness and need that ignited her own.

  She pressed herself even closer to him, wanting to be ever nearer and nearer. Wanting she knew not what. But her sudden movement sent him off balance, and he stumbled backward into the bank of potted palms.

  Emily landed hard atop him, and the impact, along with the crash of plants to the floor, shocked her awake. It was like a cold rain suddenly falling over her head.

  “Your Grace?” someone said in a hushed, shocked voice.

  Emily, still lying prone on Nicholas’s chest, peered up through the loosened skein of her hair. At least ten people stared back, including Nicholas’s brother Lord Stephen, Jane and Mr Rayburn, and their hostess. Lady Arnold covered her open mouth with a trembling hand, looking as if she was about to faint at this terrible disruption to her elegant ball.

  This was a nightmare. It simply had to be. It couldn’t be real, couldn’t be happening to her. Not to the Ice Princess, the most proper lady in all London.

  She closed her eyes, tugged her rumpled sleeve back up on to her shoulder, and prayed for deliverance from the bad dream.

  But when she opened her eyes it was all still there. She was trapped, frozen.

  Nicholas lifted her off him and rose to his feet in one smooth movement. He held on to her hand and kept her firmly by his side.

  “Lady Arnold,” he said. He sounded only the merest bit unsteady. “I am sorry to disrupt your ball. Lady Emily and I were going to announce our betrothal at a small family dinner, but I see we should do so now. Lady Emily has made me the happiest man in England by agreeing to be my wife.”

  “Oh!” Lady Arnold exhaled. Her dismay vanished in an instant, replaced by utter delight. Her ball’s fame would be assured by such a momentous announcement. “Oh, Lady Emily. Your Grace. Let me be the first to wish you happy.”

  Emily suddenly found herself clasped in Jane’s arms as her friend rushed forwards to kiss her cheek. “Emily! Why did you not tell me? Oh, my darling friend! When is the wedding to be? Shall I be your bridesmaid?”

  Over Jane’s shoulder, Emily saw Nicholas swept into the jubilant crowd, which had suddenly swelled in numbers. His brother clasped his hand. Lord Stephen smiled, but Emily saw the strained look on his face as he whispered in Nicholas’s ear.

  Mr Rayburn, her erstwhile suitor, stood off to one side, not even trying to smile. His face was dark with anger.

  And, curse it all, her mother and brother appeared in the terrace doorway, looking absolutely, disgustingly jubilant.

  Emily did not know how she felt at all. One instant, she was kissing Nicholas, all thought flown away, and now she was engaged to him. Engaged. To the Duke of Manning.

  “Now, your Grace, you must dance with your fiancée,” Lady Arnold cried. “I absolutely insist.”

  And now she had to dance, too? Emily’s legs were so weak she was sure she couldn’t take a step let alone dance. “No,” she whispered.

  Nicholas took her hand again, holding her close as if he sensed her stunned state. The look in his own eyes was also quite disbelieving. There would be no escape among the stars for either of them, not now.

  “I think my bride is a bit tired from all the excitement this evening,” he said. “Perhaps a glass of water and a place to sit down is more in order.”

  He smiled at her, and she forced herself to smile back. Yes—no escape indeed.

  Chapter Nine

  Nicholas lunged forwards with his sword, driving his opponent back in a furious volley of attacks and blows. The clash of steel rang loud in the humid air, echoing and reverberating like thunder. Sweat dripped down his brow and into his eyes, hot and stinging. His linen shirt clung to his back. Yet still he fought on.

  It was as if a demon rode him onwards, driving him with an angry frustration that would not be defeated. His opponent could only raise his own blade in an attempt at defence, trying to hold his ground.

  Nicholas swung his arm in a wide arc, knocking the other man’s blade out of his way as easily as if it was made of paper. He bashed against it for good measure, relishing the loud clang, the reverberation of impact up his arm, before pressing the tip of his sword to his opponent’s throat.

  The other man dropped his blade to the floor and threw his arms wide. “A hit, your Grace! Very well done indeed.”

  Nicholas fell back a step. He wiped at his damp brow with the back of his arm, sucking in a deep breath as he tried to push away the remnants of that blood-lust. It still pounded in his veins, a loud rush in his ears.

  “Thank you, Mr Watson,” he said. “The exercise was just what I needed today.”

  “Your form was a bit off, if I may say so, your Grace,” Mr Watson said, stripping off his heavy leather gloves. Watson was the fencing master at Gerard’s Saloon for Gentlemen, and had been tutoring Nicholas in the art of swordsmanship for many months.

  The Saloon was a great retreat from his ducal duties and the demands of society. It was a place where Nicholas could box or fence, could feel the raw physical life in his muscles and forget everything else. The rest of the world could be left at the doorstep.

  Usually. Today, the world insisted on following him inside and riding on his shoulder as he fought. He was betrothed. To Lady Emily Carroll.

  Every time he swung the sword he remembered that fact. He saw her pale, stricken face in his mind, felt her cold hand in his as she stood beside him and faced all those deluded well-wishers at the ball. She had said scarcely anything for the rest of the ghastly evening, and she never looked him in the eye.

  Was that only last night? It felt like a century ago. That ball, so full of happy smiles and congratulations from everyone but the prospective bride, seemed to last a decade in itself.

  He and Emily would not have chosen each other in a perfect world. She would certainly never have chosen him, as her frozen, statue-like demeanor last night showed all too clearly. And he, despite the strange way he seemed drawn to her despite his better judgement and prudence, would never have married at all. The title of Duchess of Manning seemed cursed after the fates of his mother and stepmother
.

  This was not a promising start to their match. If there was any way to honorably cry off he would certainly do it. But there was not, and he was not his father. He would do the honorable thing, whether he—or Emily—liked it or not.

  Even if it killed him.

  He stood up straight, balancing the hilt of the sword on his palm. “Shall we go another round, Mr Watson?”

  Watson laughed. “I fear not, your Grace. You have quite exhausted me today, and I would recommend you not exhaust yourself. I understand you have a wedding to plan.”

  “How do you know that?” Nicholas said. He cursed soundly at the speed gossip spread, even to the Saloon. There was no escaping it anywhere.

  “I think everyone knows, your Grace. They do say the lady is enormously beautiful.”

  “Yes.” Nicholas thought of Emily’s pale, heart-shaped face, her bright green eyes, her slender figure. So beautiful, and so fragile. “She is.”

  “May I offer my congratulations, your Grace? Everyone here at the Saloon wishes you great happiness.”

  Great happiness? Nicholas almost laughed aloud. They all might as well wish he could go to the moon. Married happiness in his family, it seemed, had already been taken up by his sisters.

  “Thank you, Mr Watson,” he said.

  “Nick!” Stephen called.

  Nicholas glanced over to see his brother at the edge of the room, just beyond the other practising fencers. He tossed his blade to Watson and hurried over to Stephen.

  “You were fierce out there today,” Stephen said. “I thought you were going to skewer poor Watson. Angry about something, perhaps?”

  “Never mind about me,” Nicholas said impatiently. “Did you get it?”

  “Yes, and in record time, too. Being a duke, or bearing a duke’s letter, certainly has its advantages.” Stephen reached inside his coat and drew out a folded and sealed document.