The Devil May Care

by Emma V. Leech

  Her heart stuttered in her chest as he paused just a bare inch away from her. It was painfully obvious that he had just come home. The damp early morning air clung to him, fresh and clean and full of the promise of a summer day. Yet beneath that there was another scent, less subtle and far more painful. Milly tried not to take a breath but her heart was beating too fast and she felt like she was suffocating. But the scent of the woman's perfume would taunt her now, making real all of her jealous imaginings.

  “Good morning,” he said, staring down at her. His eyes drifted over her plain cotton nightdress and she clutched the book to her chest, imagining how she must look in comparison to whatever sultry beauty he'd spent his night with.

  “G-good morning,” she stammered, forcing the words past the lump in her throat. Don't cry. Don't you dare cry. With a breaking heart she noted his cravat, usually so crisp and neat, was crumpled and all in disarray. In fact he looked dishevelled and heavy-eyed, the golden glint of stubble visible around his jaw. “I c-couldn't sleep,” she said, holding out the book by way of explanation.

  He held his hand out for her to give to him and he looked at the title with a wry smile. “Well that should do the trick,” he said, his voice soft. “I'll have to find you something more entertaining than that. I'll leave something on my desk for you.”

  He handed the book back to her and she nodded her thanks and forced a smile before turning and fleeing. She congratulated herself on making it to the top of the stairs before the tears began. Flinging herself into her bedroom she slid down the door to a trembling heap on the ground and sobbed.

  ***

  Beau watched Milly running away from him with a strange tightness around his chest. Why hadn't he said anything? Why hadn't he explained?

  He stared up at the bedroom door, closed against him and wondered if she had truly been upset. He just didn't know. He had sought to give her what she wanted but he no longer knew what that was - or even what he wanted himself. His world seemed to be in flux. The rules were changing before he could even understand what the bloody game was.

  He walked to his study and poured a drink. He'd known Mrs Hadley would give him a warm welcome and he'd not been wrong. Yet he'd been wrong to go there. He'd known it within moments of entering the house. Letty was beautiful and voluptuous and fun, if empty-headed. But then he didn't go there for her conversation.

  The evening had become something of a farce, however. He'd been with her barely ten minutes before her husband returned unexpectedly after having left to dine with friends. Letty had screamed and ushered him out of a back door and the only thing he'd felt was relief. At one time he'd have thought it funny. At one time he'd have refused to leave and hidden somewhere about the house until her husband had gone to bed. The risk of it would have appealed to his sense of adventure.

  Last night all he could think about was the gossip that Milly would have been forced to endure if Letty's husband had discovered them. What if the poor bastard had called him out? If Beau had been killed he'd have left Milly with Greythorpe and all its growing debts to deal with and she would have killed herself trying to do it. He knew she would. Because she was decent and honourable and the bloody place actually seemed to mean something to her.

  With a dejected sense of failure hanging over him he searched the shelves for something he thought Milly might enjoy. He passed by The Crimes of Love by the Marquis de Sade, unsurprised that his father should have it on his shelves. No need to terrify the poor girl. In the end he settled on The Lady of the Lake by Sir Walter Scott and put it on his desk, making a mental note to stock the shelves with something more appropriate for his wife. God alone knew what she'd find in here at the moment.

  He crossed the room to the farthest corner and the highest shelf and pulled down a large volume of prints. Sitting at the desk, drink in hand, he opened the book and cast a jaded eye over the engravings. Finely wrought they were decadent and beautiful and desperately erotic, depicting lovers engaged in numerous and varied activities.

  Beau sat back in his chair and drank the fine cognac like he was dosing himself with medicine rather than savouring the flavours as he usually would. He wanted to feel numb instead of constantly on edge, his body aching for something while his mind rebelled against it.

  He'd thought by visiting Mrs Hadley last night he would be resolving two problems. He would rid himself of the growing frustration of not having been with a woman for what he considered an interminable amount of time, and he would put Milly at her ease. If she felt she was in no danger of receiving his advances perhaps she would stop running away from him. He needed to find a way to stop her distancing herself from him and soon because he'd become aware of a growing sense of loneliness. He missed her.

  But she hadn't looked relieved when he'd come in this morning after spending far too long at the bar in the village playing cards. He remembered only too well what she'd looked like with that prim cotton dressing gown covering her from ankle to chin. Her eyes had been full of hurt and anger and he'd felt more bewildered than ever.

  He groaned and turned his attention back to the book, undoing the fall of his breeches with one hand. At least he could see to himself and ease the ache that was making him feel fractious and on edge. He turned the pages, trying to concentrate but finding as he edged closer to release, that it wasn't their wanton images that sent him over the edge with a startled cry. But instead he imagined his wife undoing the demure fastenings of her night gown.

  ***

  Too exhausted and demoralised to face anything else, Beau had taken himself to bed and risen too late to take lunch with Milly. With a sense of growing gloom he doubted if she'd miss him.

  The afternoon was spent interviewing men for the post of farm manager and he ended the day by hiring a plain speaking individual by the name of John Turnbull. The man, perhaps five years Beau's senior, had taken one look at the Duke of Ware and asked what he knew about farming? Beau had spent a very uncomfortable half an hour feeling like he was the one being interviewed. At this point Turnbull had said with disarming candour that Beau had better hire him at once before he made a regular pig's ear of things.

  Despite the man's misgivings Turnbull had apparently come to realise that – notwithstanding his lack of knowledge about farm management - the duke was no fool. They had ended the day well pleased with each other and Beau had returned to the house late in the evening.

  He paused in the entrance hall as Mrs Goodly came running out of Milly's room and down the stairs.

  “My goodness,” she said to him as she flew past. “I asked to use the kitchen to make soap and I still haven't cleaned up. Mrs Buss will be so cross.”

  Beau watched her go with a snort and climbed the stairs to go to his room. Passing Milly's door he noticed that in her haste, Mrs Goodly hadn't closed it properly, and he reached to pull it shut. He paused with his hand hovering over the handle and caught his breath.

  The large oval mirror stood at the perfect angle to the door to give him an intimate view of his wife's slender form in a large copper bath. Feeling like the worst kind of voyeur he knew he should close the door and step away but he was held immobile. No matter what his instincts as a gentleman were telling him, there was no power on God's green earth that was going to move him from this spot.

  He sucked in a breath as Milly reached out, holding onto the sides of the bath as she got to her feet. Water sluiced over her pale, slender limbs, flushed a delicate pink by the heat of the water. Her hair was loose and fell in soft waves, clinging to her damp shoulders. Desire caught him in its grip and his body grew hard and tight as his eyes took in the surprisingly curvaceous figure that had been hidden from him beneath those demure gowns.

  Her breasts were full and tipped with small rosy nipples. Beau gripped the door frame with one hand, overcome with the need to cover every inch of that flawless skin with his mouth as his hungry gaze devoured her image in the glass. Her tiny waist drew his eyes further down to the dark thatch of curls between
her legs and he felt his chest had been fastened in a vice as he couldn't draw a breath.

  He had noticed that her health had improved since she had been with him. The colour had come back to her cheeks and the gaunt, hollowed out appearance had left her face. But he'd had no idea of what was hidden beneath those high-necked gowns. His hand finally closed over the door handle as he stood warring with himself.

  It was a despicable invasion of her privacy to watch her like this. It was against everything he had agreed with her to give into his desire to open the door and step into her room. But he'd never wanted anything as much as he wanted to cross the distance between them and take her in his arms.

  His body howled with frustration as she covered herself in a sheet to dry her lovely, damp skin. Taking a step closer to the door he paused as he heard footsteps on the stairs and cursed. No doubt Mrs Goodly hurrying back to help Milly get ready for bed.

  With regret and repressed desire burning in his veins he moved away from the door and retreated to his own room, alone.

  Chapter 11

  “Wherein our heroine makes plans and pretends ignorance, and our hero refuses to be ignored.”

  It had taken Milly the whole of the next day to find some mastery over her own emotions. She was immediately cast once more into misery, however, when she discovered Beau was absent again at dinner time. The information offered by Rexom, however, that his grace was dining with the new farm manager brought her back to her senses.

  This could not go on. She had promised herself she would make him comfortable and not pry into his affairs. She had sworn, both to him and to herself that they would be friends and partners and his indiscretions would not play any part in disturbing that.

  It appeared that was an empty promise. He'd spent one night away from her, and only after she'd practically insisted that he should. But that one night had brought home to her how out of control she was, how far she had come from the woman who could listen to a tirade of abuse about her lack of worth and not blink an eye. Well that would change. It had to change. She would take control of herself, of her emotions, and channel her energies into something useful: Saving Greythorpe.

  The day had been spent making and casting aside various plans and ways of making their fortune and left her feeling wrung out and dejected.

  Finally having given up on the possibility of coming up with an idea she had given into the temptation of a bath and soaked in blissful peace.

  She stepped out of the bath and wrapped herself in a towel, turning as Edith came back into the room.

  “Bless that little kitchen maid Polly. You know the new girl Mrs Buss took on from the village? She'd cleaned everything away by the time I got down there.”

  “What a sweet girl,” Milly said smiling at her as she sat at her dressing table.

  “Yes,” Edith said, nodding. “And so I told her.”

  She busied herself for a moment, putting away Milly's clothes and then came over to take the brush from the dressing table.

  Milly sighed as Edith began to brush her hair with long, even strokes.

  “Goodness me, I remember doing this for you when you were a little slip of a girl. Look at you now, Milly dear, the Duchess of Ware.” She gave a little sigh of pleasure at the idea and Milly closed her eyes before her old friend and dresser could see the misery in her eyes. Allowing herself to be lulled by the pleasurable sensation of Edith brushing her hair until it shone, she relaxed a little. The delicious scent of her handmade rose soap curled around her, heated by the warmth of her own skin.

  “Such a decadent scent, Edith,” she said sighing and looking up at her.

  Edith chuckled and nodded. “Yes, and if your husband could see what I could now he'd bite off his tongue at having made that foolish agreement.”

  Milly stiffened and sat up. “Don't be ridiculous, Edith.”

  Edith sighed and lowered the brush, frustrated affection in her eyes. “Oh, love. I wish you'd look at yourself and forget everything that wicked man told you. Perhaps you're not the kind that makes a man's jaw drop when you enter a room, but if you think you aren't lovely just take a look in that mirror.”

  Milly turned her unwilling gaze back to the glass but saw nothing that surprised her. Her eyes were too large in a small face and her limbs too skinny and awkward, though she admitted they were a little less angular now than they had been. But her face was pleasant rather than pretty and she saw nothing remarkable about her figure, finding her breasts too large on an otherwise petite frame.

  She'd taken note of Beau's preferred taste in women long before she had ever spoken to him and she knew well enough that she was far from his ideal. His tastes had been for curvaceous, voluptuous creatures with bodies that appeared invitingly soft. Her own figure seemed mean and shrewish in comparison and the softness of her full breasts only seemed to draw attention to that fact.

  She had spent too much of her life having her physical and mental deficiencies pointed out to her to place any value in her dear friend's well meaning words. Instead she just laughed and shook her head, pretending it was just a silly joke and not something that made her heart hurt.

  “Well I do smell nice at any rate,” she replied, keeping her tone light.

  Edith tutted at her as her deft fingers plaited her hair ready for bed.

  “She smells nice,” Edith repeated in annoyance. “She sits there with skin like silk and all she can say is that she smells nice,” she muttered, sounding really rather cross.

  Milly laughed for real this time, amused by Edith's indignation. “Well, Mrs Goodly,” she said, turning around to meet her friend's eyes. “I will concede I do have lovely skin. But we both know that is entirely down to that wonderful skin cream you make.”

  Edith softened and came to stand beside Milly again, the two women's faces side by side in the mirror. “Well I will accept that,” she replied smiling. “Granny Alice's recipe that is. Been in the family for generations.”

  Milly nodded and reached out to touch Edith's face. “How old are you, Edith?”

  Edith blushed a little and smoothed her hair. “Well ... if you must know, I'm seventy.” She laughed out loud at Milly's astonished expression in the glass.

  “You never are!” Milly exclaimed, staring at the woman wide-eyed. “But Edith, I would never have guessed. You don't look anything like that!”

  Edith gave her a smug grin. “Well, I'm not one that holds with vanity but I can't help but agree with you. But then old Alice was ninety eight when she passed and she still had the loveliest skin you ever saw.”

  “Good gracious!” Milly exclaimed, laughing. “Any woman alive would pay a king's ransom for ...” She stopped in her tracks and drew in a sharp breath. “For a secret like that,” she whispered and then turned and caught hold of her friend's hand. “Oh, Edith!” she said, looking up at her with excitement bursting in her chest. “That's it! You've done it. I know how we can save Greythorpe!”

  ***

  Beau walked toward his study aware that his mood was not a good one. He had snapped at poor Purefoy twice this morning for trifling matters that he had no business being so bad-tempered about. He didn't seem to be able to stop himself though.

  After an interminable night assaulted by heated dreams of his wife's damp, naked skin against his own he felt prickly and unwilling to be placated. His own flesh seemed to have shrunk over his bones, his whole body feeling tense and ill at ease and it hadn't been helped by seeing his wife at breakfast.

  He hadn't seen her since that awful moment when he had come home in the early hours after - as she would think - spending the night with his mistress. After seeing the hurt in her eyes he had expected her to be cold to him, to be furious with him, to sulk or reproach or accuse him. Any of those he had been prepared for and would have been glad for the opportunity to tell her truth about what had happened.

  He hadn't expected for her to be so obviously distracted by whatever was on her mind that she had hardly noticed his presence at all
. To say it was galling was something of an understatement.

  Beau was not used to not being noticed. He was used to women using any and every excuse under the sun to get close to him, even when he'd been a penniless marquis. Admittedly he wasn't exactly plump in the pockets now but no one but he and Milly knew that and he was a duke, dammit! He had only to show his face in London to have women crawling out of the woodwork and demanding his attention.

  The only one whose attention he didn't seem to be able to hold was the plain little dab with big brown eyes that happened to be his wife. Except she didn't seem plain any more.

  He'd been increasingly aware of his wife's proximity for some time now, and he would be the first to admit that her apparent aversion to his being close to her had peaked his interest. Why, dammit? Why didn't she want him? And why were those ridiculous gowns with high necks and long sleeves suddenly driving him to distraction?

  She'd worn a slightly different gown at breakfast this morning. Although still cut high, the collar had been open to show her elegant neck and the little hollow at the base of her throat. Beau had been transfixed. He had spent half the time trying desperately to engage her in a conversation she clearly had no interest in participating in, and the rest torn between gazing at that small expanse of her swanlike neck and her deliciously inviting mouth.

  Why hadn't he noticed her mouth before? The bottom lip was full and plump and the upper a perfect Cupid's bow. When she had failed to answer his question about her plans for the day he had looked up and found her gazing with a distracted air out of the window opposite. With a slight frown on her smooth brow she had bitten that full lower lip and then swept out her neat pink tongue over the tender area. It had nearly made him weep with longing. He was going out of his damned mind!

  He reached his study and strode in to find his wife jump away from the shelves of the bookcase with a startled shriek.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, taking in her look of shock with surprise. What on earth was she looking so guilty about? “I didn't mean to startle you.”