A Season for Love

by Blair Bancroft

  Marcus covered his eyes with his hand, head shaking in disbelief. He sagged back against the clothespress. Finally, after long moments of silence, he peered at his bride over his knuckles. He took a deep breath. “First of all,” he declared, dropping his hand to his side, “I gave my most recent chère amie her congé some weeks before we were betrothed. Somehow she had turned quite insipid and cloying,” he added drily, tossing his wife a look full of significance. “Second, although I admit to being a difficult man, I believe I can say I had the pick of the Marriage Mart. At least the Duke of Longville did, if not Marcus Carlington,” he qualified. “And I chose you. Does that not tell you something, Jenny? I should, at least, hope it would.” So why in bloody hell did she look so puzzled?

  “You like me?” Jen ventured. “Is that what you are saying?”

  “Good God, woman, why else would I marry you?” the duke roared.

  As a prelude to romance, the scene was not promising.

  Jenny clasped her hands in front of her mouth, rocking slowly back and forth in her embroidered silk slippers. Her shoulders shook.

  “Are you laughing?” he demanded.

  She turned her head, wiping a knuckled fist across her cheek.

  Hell and Damnation, she was crying!

  Thoroughly frustrated, the Duke of Longville gripped the top of the clothespress with both hands, his dark head bent above his discarded jewelry, the ghostly white of his neckcloth, the fine white-on-white embroidery of his waistcoat. Despair flooded through him. A man of his address, his expertise with women, and he had made a mull of his wedding night.

  He felt a tug on the back of his white linen shirt. Another tug . . . gentle fingertips brushed his skin. Cool air touched his back as the shirt slid free of his pantaloons. Soft hands moved forward, a butterfly touch just above his waist. A few more deft tugs and the front of his shirt hung as free as the back. His body shivered and came to attention. The fingers withdrew, leaving him bereft, then touched briefly on each wrist. Marcus, devoid of rational thought, obeying instinct alone, raised his arms, drawing a sharp breath as his shirt skimmed his face, was tossed carelessly on top of the other discarded items of clothing.

  His vision blurred, refocused in time to see his bride shrug out of her dressing gown, allowing the fragile silk to fall to the floor. She was . . . magnificent. Tall and stately, clad only in a single layer of transparent silk, she was every man’s dream of a goddess.

  “That was a very poor kiss, the merest peck, you delivered in church,” Jenny taunted, green eyes rife with promise. “I trust you can do better.”

  Head reeling, the Duke of Longville proceeded to demonstrate exactly how he had maintained his reputation amongst the ladies, as well as the courtesans, of London. Their long embrace was broken only as his wife demonstrated her expertise at removing boots, form-fitting jersey trousers, and the unmentionables beneath. Compared to these feats of dexterity by the new Duchess of Longville, the duke’s removal of his bride’s wisp of silk nightgown was no challenge at all, not even requiring a pause as his tongue explored her mouth. They tumbled onto the broad four-poster, leaving a trail of garments from the clothespress to the bed.

  Intimacy might not be the solution to all the problems that confronted the Duke and Duchess of Longville, but it was certainly going to help.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Eight

  “O-oh.” Lady Caroline Carlington’s small murmur of pleasure drew a sharp-eyed look from Miss Sarah Tompkins, who was engaged in something well outside her duties as governess; namely, the mending of a hole in young Laurence’s second-best pair of breeches. “Lord Frayne,” Caroline explained, looking up from the note she was perusing, “has invited me for a drive in Hyde Park this afternoon. He is the duchess’s brother. Family,” she emphasized hastily.

  Sarah Tompkins, a gentlewoman of impoverished family, who had endured much since she had come to the late duchess as governess when Caroline was five, merely nodded and agreed that a drive with Lord Frayne would be quite unexceptional. “Perhaps the rose muslin, my dear, with the embroidered spencer and matching bonnet,” she suggested. “I do believe that is the most fashionable of the gowns Miss Clemens created for you.”

  In the waning weeks of her year of mourning Caroline had had the seamstress in Little Stoughton make up a few gowns which might best be described as plainer, more modest versions of the sometimes outré designs found in La Belle Assemblé. Since Caroline had had time for only one brief visit to a London modiste, the rose muslin—whose sole decoration consisted of pintucks and a narrow lace insert on sleeves and hem—would have to do. And, truthfully, she felt more comfortable in the rose muslin than she would in most of the gowns the London modiste had assured her were the latest fashion.

  “Perhaps,” Miss Tompkins ventured, her needle poised over the brown-ribbed fustian, “but . . . no.” She shook her gray-streaked dark head and fell silent.

  “My dear Tommy, what is it?”

  For a moment Sarah Tompkins, unaccustomedly reticent, hesitated. “I had thought . . . if you find Lord Frayne a kindly man, not too high in the instep, you might ask if he would invite Laurence to drive out as well. Not today, of course,” she amended as a look of dismay swept her charge’s face, “but perhaps another day this week. He is so anxious to see everything there is—”

  “I am the veriest wretch ” Lady Caroline burst out. “How could I have been so selfish. I shall send a note ’round to the viscount—”

  Miss Tompkins’s words stopped Lady Caroline’s rush toward the escritoire in the corner. “Not today, my dear. This is your day. You are a lady born, and it time you took your place in society. You will drive out with Lord Frayne, view the ton on parade, as they will view you. And you will enjoy yourself,” she added on an admonitory note. “It is right and proper that Lord Frayne should do this for you. I am told he is top-of-the-trees, a fitting escort for such an outing.”

  Because Caroline had been only ten when they left London for the Lake District, she occasionally forgot that Miss Sarah Tompkins had spent most of her life among the ton and was familiar with its cant as well as its idiosyncrasies. Caroline did not, however, forget that she owed the surprisingly high polish on her social manners to none other than her long-time governess. “Yes, ma’am,” she responded meekly, although her sparkling eyes revealed her personal pleasure in Miss Tompkins’s dictum. The governess nodded serenely and returned to her mending. Caroline, however, found she could no longer concentrate on the epic poem she had been reading. For some ridiculous reason Tony Norville’s handsome face kept dancing over the pages of Byron’s Corsair.

  When Lord Frayne arrived promptly at four o’clock, he found his passenger ready. Beyond a few words of polite conversation with Miss Tompkins, he was not forced to keep his lively chestnuts waiting. “They are beautiful,” Lady Caroline told him with unfeigned admiration when she saw his matched pair.

  “They meet with your approval then?” Tony teased, with a flick of an eyebrow.

  Unaccustomed to masculine badinage and always a bit disconcerted in Lord Frayne’s company, Caroline stuck her chin in the air, moving past the viscount to his curricle, where she was forced to pause. There was no way she could scramble up on her own without totally sacrificing the ladylike dignity she knew she must maintain. And then his hands were on her waist and somehow she was seated on the high bench seat. Just as if she were a child, Caroline fumed. A lady should be handed up, not thrown like a sack of coal! Head down, she nursed her indignation while Lord Frayne climbed up beside her, took the reins from his groom, and gave his horses the office to start.

  The viscount, evidently sensing her annoyance, was content to confine his conversation to pointing out a few interesting architectural details during the short blocks to the Stanhope Gate. And—drat the man—Caroline had to admit she was so delighted with their entrance into a world of green grass, trees and bushes, picturesque paths, and a carriage road of good English soil set down within the smoke-filled
, noisy, cobbled streets of London that she promptly forgot her pique.

  Hyde Park was teeming with life. Men and women walking, on horseback, driving in landaus, barouches, phaetons, high-perch phaetons, and curricles. For the most part the gentlemen were nearly as perfectly turned out as Lord Frayne; the ladies, positively dazzling to the eye. Even as echoes of her mama’s derogatory remarks about the ton flitted through her head, Caroline’s eyes shone with eagerness and curiosity. Was it really so terrible to parade about the park, gossip over tea, or dance the night away?

  Game away a fortune?

  Set up a mistress?

  That was her mother talking, Caroline told herself firmly. Her mother who had fallen into a melancholy from which she never recovered.

  Lady Caroline welcomed the interruption to her confused reverie as Viscount Frayne stopped for the first of many times in their drive through the park. Although she made a valiant effort to remember names, Caroline realized she would recall few of the viscount’s introductions except Sir Chetwin and Mr. Trimby-Ashford, whom he termed his particular friends.

  Tony was, in fact, quite proud of himself. Here he was, sitting next to the most delectable young lady to grace the ton in the past several years, yet the conscience he hadn’t known he had was dictating that his behavior remain avuncular. In addition, he had been introducing Caroline only to those whom he knew the duke would approve. It was most fortunate Lady Caroline’s lovely features were hidden away behind that blasted rose bonnet with the ridiculous flowers that bounced with every beat of his horses’ hooves. Otherwise . . . well, otherwise, he would find his role even more difficult to play.

  As the Serpentine came into view, Caroline exclaimed in delight. “I remember this!” she cried. “Papa used to bring me here. Sometimes we sailed a little boat. All the others with boats were boys, but there I was among them.” She looked out over the modest pond, obviously seeing sights to which Tony was not privileged. “I had the biggest boat,” she sighed. “Painted bright blue and white. I wonder what happened to it . . . do you think it might still be in the attic?” she asked wistfully.

  “Very likely,” Tony replied. “I imagine your brother might enjoy it?”

  “Oh, yes, what a good idea.” The eager face turned up to his suddenly sobered. “It was most kind of you to invite me today, my lord,” she declared primly. “I feared you might have taken me in dislike after our . . . our . . .”

  “Our anonymous moments in the library?” Tony supplied.

  “Yes.” Her face was suddenly lost to him again as she ducked her head to examine her white kidskin gloves. “I was wondering”—Lady Caroline’s voice emanated from behind the rose bonnet and bouncing flowers—“would you be quite terribly put out if I asked you to take Laurence on a drive ’round the city? One would expect him to be overawed by his changed circumstances, but, truthfully, he is so eager to be out and about, I can scarce believe it.”

  Tony drew his horses to the side of the carriage path. Placing his index finger under Caroline’s chin, he turned her to face him. Anxious eyes looked up to meet his. “You want me to bear-lead a seven-year-old around London?” he asked with mock severity. “Anthony Norville, the elegant Lord Frayne—escort to one of the infantry?”

  “I beg your pardon,” Caroline burbled. “I cannot believe I was so forward. ’Tis only that you are family now, and I saw how kind you were to your niece and—”

  “Foolish girl,” Tony grinned, “do you think me an ogre? Of course I will drive your dratted brother about, even if he has cut up my sister’s peace. But only on one condition, mind.”

  Lady Caroline’s eyes took on a knowing look. “And that would be?” she challenged.

  “That you accompany us, of course,” he responded. “I shall borrow mama’s barouche, and we will take Susan as well.”

  “That,” Caroline declared, “is two conditions.”

  Tony grinned, cheerfully conceding his guilt while silently condemning her protest to the realm of the merest quibble. “Shall we say tomorrow at one, followed by ices at Gunter’s?” he inquired blandly. “Unless, of course,” he added, sky blue eyes gleaming with barely hidden mirth, “you feel you cannot manage two children of that age?”

  “Do not be absurd,” Caroline told him grandly.

  “You know,” the viscount added, furrowing his brow as if in deep thought, “London is a large city. It may take more than one outing to cover all your brother might wish to see.”

  But Lady Caroline was gone yet again, hidden behind her bonnet, back straight, shoulders squared. Perhaps she was wise not to comment, Tony thought. It was quite possible one outing with two small children would be more than enough for both of them.

  On the morning after her wedding the Duchess of Longville came awake slowly, wriggled luxuriously against the warmth next to her . . . became suddenly, shockingly, aware she was not alone. Jen’s eyes flew open, then squeezed tight shut as every moment of her wedding night came rushing back in a outpouring of fragile emotions and strongly carnal sensations.

  She couldn’t have! She could not possibly have been so forward.

  Carefully, Jenny inched away from the warmth that had enchanted her when she was half-asleep, away from the strong back, the tangle of toes; out from under the well-muscled arm. Reaching the edge of the vast bed, she paused, suddenly aware she had nowhere to go. With the fire burned down, the room was distinctly chilly, and there was nothing to cover her nakedness but the wispy silk of that ridiculous dressing gown. How she longed for her sturdy wool robe, her warm slippers . . . And even if she had them, what would she do? She was trapped in this room. If she so much as poked her nose out the door, the entire household—indeed, the entire village nearby—would know within the hour that a second duchess had run from the Duke of Longville’s bed.

  Jenny stifled a moan, inching onto her side so close to the edge of the bed she was in danger of tumbling off. She had given the duke a disgust of her, she was certain of it. She had actually put her arms about the Duke of Longville, touched his flesh, stripped off his shirt. Dear God, what had she been thinking?

  That it was her wedding night and, quite incredibly, it seemed to be the groom who had the most doubts and fears. So she had done what any sensible woman would have done—and sensible, she knew, was a word frequently applied to the former Lady Eugenia Wharton. She had offered comfort, the only comfort she knew how to give on a bridal night.

  And, truly, he had not seemed offended. Or disgusted.

  But now it was morning, the sun creeping in past the edges of the heavy velvet draperies, bringing reality to the union between the Duke of Longville and his second wife. His—ah—enthusiasm of the night before could be attributed to the truth of his statement that he had parted from his mistress several months ago. Very well, Jen told herself, she had performed her primary marital duty well, though she refused to look too closely at her own enthusiasm of the previous night. And now, this morning, she could fulfill the other function expected of her—that of chatelaine to the ducal households. Directly after breakfast she would begin to make lists of the refurbishments necessary at Totten Court. She would keep very busy and not think of the night to come. Except to reaffirm her determination never to take the initiative in the bedroom again.

  Once again, vivid memories of her wedding night intruded on her sensible intentions. Jen could feel a flush which started at her toes and rose all the way up her naked body to stain her cheeks and creep into the very roots of her tumbled dark hair. The unfashionably long mass that Marcus had so enjoyed playing with . . . running his fingers over her scalp, down the lengthy fine strands, touching her ears, her cheeks, her breasts . . .

  Fool, thy name is woman!

  Jen gasped as long fingers cupped her bottom.

  “What are you doing way over there?” her husband demanded, giving her nether cheeks a squeeze.

  “I—I did not wish to disturb your sleep.”

  “Dear girl, wedding nights are not for sleeping
.”

  “It’s morning.”

  “Dawn,” he corrected, his voice warming to an insinuating tease. “It’s a chilly May morning, and I am cold. As a proper wife, I am certain you will wish to do something about that.”

  He wanted her? Now? With Gordon she had expected any time, any place they could snatch some privacy, but with the Duke of Longville . . .?

  After the several long moments it took for Jenny to digest this startling turn of events, she rolled over onto her back and waited to see what would happen. Did he mean what she thought he meant?

  He did.

  “Good morning, Huntley,” Viscount Frayne declared.

  “My lord.” The small boy bowed, then added. “It is very kind of you to take us on a tour of the city.”

  “You may call me Uncle Tony, just as Susan does.” The viscount nodded toward his four-year-old niece, who was sitting primly upright on the broad seat of the open barouche.

  “I think not.” Lady Caroline, who was still reeling from the viscount’s use of her little brother’s title, spoke sharply.

  “Whyever not?” Tony demanded, reminding Caroline strongly that he was indeed family and entitled to the privileges thereof.

  How could she tell him she did not want Laurence to call him Uncle Tony as that could only emphasize that he was her uncle as well? And she did not want the Viscount Frayne as an uncle.

  Not that she wanted him at all, of course. An absurd thought. Just because he was handsome and charming and one of the most fashionable leaders of the ton . . .

  Drat! She had only to look at him and she forgot all her mother’s admonitions.

  “Huntley,” the viscount was saying, “since your sister remains silent, I believe you may address me in whichever manner you wish—you do, after all, outrank me—but I give you leave to call me Uncle Tony when you are comfortable with the term.