The Duke's Inconvenient Bride (Regency Romance)

by Eva Grace

  It was almost as though she had offended him, though how she did not know. She was acting in a most respectable manner, unlike the lady to his right, whose dress was so low that Catherine was almost expecting the butler to announce that her bosom would be served for the seventh course.

  Mercifully the seventh course was a rather more appetising selection of cheeses and sweetmeats, after which the Dowager Duchess invited the guests for tea in the drawing room.

  "And perhaps a game of charades?" she added brightly, ignoring her son, who made a sound similar to that of an irritated horse at the mention of charades.

  "Capital idea, your Grace," Miss Harriett Kipling called, a sly smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Lady Drakefield, I rather think charades is a game you will be quite good at."

  A few people tittered quietly with amusement at the underhand reference to Lady Drakefield's previous occupation. Lady Drakefield herself, gave Miss Kipling an icy smile in return.

  "I suppose it shall be, Miss Kipling," she responded glacially, with a heavy emphasis on the Miss. It appeared that the Lady Drakefield was not going to be cowed by the taunts of an untitled lady.

  The group, which was a mixture of young and old, divided themselves into teams. Catherine found herself seated beside the stunning Lady Drakefield, who placed her hand on Catherine's arm in a most commanding manner.

  "My you are a pretty thing," she commented, her almond shaped eyes assessing Catherine from head to toe. Although in actuality the lady had given her a compliment, it felt more like an accusation to Catherine's ears. The two sat side by side on an overstuffed sofa, as they watched Captain DeWitt attempt to mime the title of a novel.

  "Are you long in Sussex, Lady Catherine?" Lady Drakefield asked lightly. Her eyes were focused on the Captain, though Catherine sense a stiffness to her that suggested her attention was really elsewhere.

  "We arrived just this morning," Catherine replied easily, "And you?"

  "This afternoon,the journey took longer than it should have as Lord Drakefield is a poor traveller," the blonde replied with a sniff of contempt. She glanced across the room at her husband, who was dozing in a wing-backed chair, her nose wrinkled in obvious distaste. There must be half a century between husband and wife, Catherine thought with wonder. She knew that some ladies were so socially aspirational that they would do anything to climb to the top of society's tree, but Catherine rather thought she'd crawl across hot coals rather than marry the decrepit Lord Drakefield.

  "I hear that you will be staying as a guest of Her Grace, in London," the woman continued, now obviously ignoring poor Captain DeWitt's valiant attempts at miming, instead watching Catherine as she waited for an answer.

  "I am, Her Grace has been most kind," Catherine replied shortly, not warming to her companion who was so obviously fishing for a tasty morsel of gossip.

  "Are you very close then? You and the Dowager Duchess?" Lady Drakefield continued impudently; whether through complete ignorance or disregard for social niceties, Catherine could not tell, though she was inclined to think the former. Lady Drakefield's nose was pretty and upturned, but it was also as hard as brass.

  "Her Grace was close to my mother as a child," Catherine shrugged, before turning away from Lady Drakefield and calling out loudly; "Dante's Inferno."

  "Capital, Lady Catherine," Captain DeWitt gave her a winning smile, "How could you tell?"

  "It was your wonderful acting skills, Captain," Catherine lied easily, not adding that the inspiration for the answer had struck her on account of the fact that her conversation with Lady Drakefield was almost akin to being stuck in the seventh circle of hell. The whole room burst into a spontaneous round of applause for her, apart from the Duke, whose face was wreathed in an angry frown.

  Goodness, Catherine huffed to herself, surely he can't be annoyed with me for guessing the correct answer.

  "Who's next?" the handsome Captain asked, glancing at their team's side of the room.

  "Not I," Miss Kipling drawled, "I get terrible stage fright —Lady Drakefield, why don't you go first?"

  The former actress nodded her head and rose elegantly from her seat to take centre stage in the middle of the room. She was a very beautiful woman, Catherine noted; her figure was slim, her dress exquisitely cut and her posture was excellent. She was the type of woman who drew one's eye without even trying. Indeed, Catherine noted that several of the assembled men sat up a little straighter in their chairs with interest as Lady Drakefield stood to perform her piece. All that is, apart from the Duke, who looked dashed uncomfortable as the former actress began to mime.

  As the stunning lady continued the game of charades, it became obvious that her acting skills were directed at but one person —the Duke. Lady Drakefield's eyes were determinedly fixed on Albright, who had resumed frowning in a terrifying manner.

  Gracious, I wonder if they are lovers? Catherine thought, as she watched the actress's shameless antics. She did not have to wonder for much longer, for a little later, when all the guests had begun to drift away to bed, Catherine encountered the Duke and Lady Drakefield in an upstairs hallway.

  They were walking toward her and were so engaged in conversation that they did not see Catherine before them. Not wishing to be involved in a scene, Catherine ducked into the nearest room. Through the crack in the doorway she watched as Albright and Lady Drakefield came to a halt, just a foot away from her.

  "You should not have come, Constance," Albright growled, his handsome face a picture of annoyance. "You should have refused the invitation."

  "I wanted to see you, Raff," Lady Drakefield responded, her voice whiny and petulant. "I know you don't mean it when you say that you no longer wish to see me. Not when I'm the woman who does things to you like..."

  Catherine stifled a gasp of shock as Lady Drakefield rather graphically described all the things that she did to the Duke —some of which, Catherine was certain, were not legal. The Duke in turn responded with a low moan of desire and a harsh curse, the ferocity of which sent a shiver down Catherine's spine. Was that what men desired-- coarse words and suggestions?

  "You were designed to torment me Constance," the Duke whispered hoarsely after a moment's silence.

  "As was your mother," Lady Drakefield's tone was cruel and teasing. "I see the little morsel that she has invited to try and tempt you away from me. Such a sweet girl, she would make a fine Duchess."

  "Who?" Albright snorted derisively, "Lady Catherine? Jupiter, Constance, you can't think that a simpering virgin like she would tempt me. Besides, she's far too plain to be a Duchess."

  Catherine bit her lip to hold back a cry of indignation; it did not matter that he was not tempted by her —she would never be tempted by a man as morally repugnant as the Duke of Albright. The injustice of the situation rankled her so much, that hot tears of fury were threatening her eyes. Luckily the Duke and Lady Drakefield continued their walk and a few minutes later, once the coast was clear, Catherine hurried back to her bedchamber.

  Oh, I despise that man, she thought furiously, as she undressed without the help of her lady's maid, whom she presumed had gone to bed herself. Catherine crawled under her coverlet, grateful for the hot-brick that the other-wise errant chamber maid had placed at the end of the bed. She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, but she was plagued by dreams filled with the Duke of Albright.

  In her dream he was dressed as he had been when she had spied on him from the window. His dark hair was loose over his collar and his shirtsleeves rolled up to revealed tanned, muscular forearms. She tossed and turned as the handsome Duke teased her mercilessly, his face creased with a wicked grin, until—finally— he dropped his head and his lips claimed her in a kiss that was so sensual it was almost unreal.

  Until it wasn't.

  "What the—?" Catherine cried, as she woke up to find that the kiss that she had been dreaming of was very much so real and was taking place in her bed. The Duke of Albright was laid out beside her, his strong arm wrap
ped around her waist, turning her body toward him, as his lips claimed hers in a passionate kiss.

  "Your Grace," Catherine shrieked, pushing him off her with such force that he fell half way off the bed. " What is the meaning of this. Get off me...get out of my bed! What in heavens do you think you're doing?"

  "I thought," the Duke responded, as he scrambled to his feet, his face looking rather amused, given the circumstances. "That I was kissing another woman."

  "Oh," Catherine huffed sarcastically, pulling her sheets up around her to better preserve her modesty. "Well that makes everything all right then. We can just forget this ever happened and merely put it down to a simple misunderstanding."

  "That would be most sporting of you, Lady Catherine," the Duke responded in a whisper, already backing away toward the door. "Anything else would lead to a scandalous marriage, and I'm sure that neither of us want that."

  Catherine, who had been about to loudly berate Albright for his total lack of propriety and manners, snapped her mouth shut at his words. He was right, if they were to be caught alone together in her bedchamber, it would result in the most terrible of scandals.

  "Go," she whispered furiously, waving him away with an impatient hand, eager to see the back of him, despite the pleasurable tingle that still lingered on her lips. The Duke obeyed, hastily beating a retreat to the door, but his way was hindered when the aforementioned door was flung open with a bellowing shout.

  "Who's there? I warn you, I am armed."

  Lord Drakefield stood illuminated by the light from the corridor with what looked like a fire-poker in hand, the Dowager Duchess and Butler cowering behind him.

  "Lady Catherine, are you alright?" the Duchess called, peering over Lord Drakefield's shoulder. "We were told there was an intruder spotted entering your room. Is there anyone there...Raff, is that you? Good Heavens!"

  Good Heavens, indeed, Catherine thought with a sinking stomach.

  His plan for an evening of debauchery seemed to have gone terribly awry, Raff thought to himself, as he glanced from his mother's shocked, pale face to the quivering jowls of Lord Drakefield, who was still enthusiastically brandishing a fire poker.

  When a servant had slipped him a note just a half an hour ago, ostensibly from Constance, which had given him instructions to meet her in her chambers on the third floor, all sense of reason had left Raff. He paid no mind to the fact that he would be a most lacking host if he seduced another man's wife, while that man was a guest in his house, for when, he reasoned, had he ever proclaimed himself a good host in the first place?

  He had crept down the corridor of the third floor, filled with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. He knew, deep down, that continuing his affair with Constance was a bad idea, but the part of him that knew it was a bad idea, was so deep down that Raff was easily able to pretend it didn't actually exist. He had spent nearly two and thirty years ignoring his conscience —why start paying attention to it now, when there was fun to be had?

  The room had been in darkness when he had opened the door, which he should have noted as a warning sign, for Constance, ever the actress, had always been fond of putting on a show. Raff had laid himself on the bed beside her, marvelling at the new scent of lavender and vanilla that she was wearing which inflamed his desire ten-fold, before pulling her body toward him and covering her plump mouth with his lips.

  It had taken him a few moments to realise that the plump lips he was kissing, did not belong to Constance. This realisation was aided by a rather forceful shove and a cry of indignation —not the usual reaction his seduction techniques induced.

  It was with some shock that Raff had realised that he was most definitely in the wrong room and that it had been Lady Catherine he was trying to debauch, but once he had, he had also realised that he needed to make a sharp exit before anyone discovered him. Retreat was at the forefront of his mind, but also a nagging worry, for his clandestine evening of romance was beginning to feel like a set-up of sorts.

  This suspicion was confirmed when the door to Lady Catherine's bed-chamber had burst open to reveal his mother, Lord Drakefield and the butler standing gaping in at them.

  Constance.

  Raff knew at once that the blonde haired temptress had not been trying to seduce him, rather teach him a lesson for having ended their relationship and wounding her pride. She had deliberately sent him to Lady Catherine's rooms with the intention of trapping him into marriage with the woman he had, not an hour ago, named as a plain-faced dullard.

  "What on earth are you doing in Lady Catherine's room, Raff?" his mother asked, breaking the shocked silence.

  That was a very good question, Raff thought, and he needed a very good answer. He could not tell the truth, that he was actually seeking Lord Drakefield's wife to engage in sinful pleasure. Nor could he say that he was there to seduce Lady Catherine —for that was equally reprehensible and act. He may have been a rake, but Raff had no interest in taking liberties with unwilling ladies for his own gratification.

  "I was..."

  He trailed off and cast a beseeching look at Lady Catherine, who was still sitting on her bed with her covers drawn up to her chin. She in turn cast him a look that expressed her feelings rather well; it was an almost comical mix of anger and disdain. Try talk yourself out of this one, her eyes seemed to say.

  Very well, Raff thought with irritation, I will.

  "I was here to propose to Lady Catherine. I had just snuck into her room to serenade her with a poem, when you all interrupted me," he stated churlishly. "I have fallen, madly, passionately and irrevocably in love."

  "Oh, Raff," his mother's eyes widened with delight.

  "Oh, Your Grace," the butler covered his face with his hands in dismay. Poor Walker had been witness to many of Raff's sudden passions over the years, from fencing, to boxing, to drinking, and knew how impulsive and passionate the Duke could be. The poor sod probably thought Raff was in love and had lost all sense of reason, decorum and rank, rather than the actual truth —which was that he was merely lost.

  "Eh, Albright?" Lord Drakefield grunted, disbelievingly. "You'll have me believe that a man of your reputation was doing anything as soppy as that? You were going to take liberties with that poor lass, and she a guest under your roof."

  Drat. Raff stifled a curse; his reputation as a libertine had never seemed a particular hindrance until now.

  "It's true, my Lord," a quiet voice spoke, causing each head to turn its way. "His Grace was actually singing a love song to me, before your arrival."

  "A love song?" Lord Drakefield's two bushy, grey eyebrows drew together suspiciously.

  "Oh yes, he has quite the sweet voice —so high for such a large man."

  "I don't believe it."

  "Oh, but he does," Lady Catherine replied innocently, "It's almost like a girl's. Why don't you show Lord Drakefield how sweetly you sing, your Grace?"

  "I couldn't possibly," Raff replied drolly, glaring at his supposed sweetheart, who was looking far too amused for her own good.

  "I don't want to listen to the blasted man sing," Lord Drakefield interjected, once more brandishing the fire-poker in his hand. "I want the bugger to commit to doing the honourable thing. Albright, you have been caught alone in a young lady's room —you must marry her."

  "Oh, but there is no need."

  All traces of amusement had left Lady Catherine's face and even in the dim light cast from the hallway, Raff could see that she had turned a ghostly shade of white.

  "No need?" Lord Drakefield was so stricken with indignation that he began to wheeze, so much so that the quartet had to wait for him to catch his breath, before he spoke again. "There is a man in your bedchamber, my Lady. You are dressed in just your night-rail. Never has there been more an imperative need for a marriage than this."

  Raff barely managed to stop himself from saying that he had been in plenty a bedchamber with women wearing far less, yet had never even thought of marriage, but restrained himself. He was in h
is mother's presence after all.

  "There is no question of whether Raff will do the honourable thing, Lord Drakefield," his mother interjected, sounding offended on her son's behalf. "You heard him yourself - he was in the act of proposing when we interrupted."

  "Aye," Drakefield scratched the wiry, grey stubble on his chin. "So he says, though if he's lying, mark my words I'll call him out."

  Which was a laughable idea, though for once Raff knew it would not be the best idea to actually laugh aloud.

  "There's no need for that kind of talk," the Dowager Duchess drew herself up indignantly, "Why would he not marry her after saying that he would?"

  "Perhaps, because I do not wish to marry him?"

  Lady Catherine's strong, resolute tone put a halt to the bickering between Lord Drakefield and his mother, who were —mercifully—stunned into silence. Raff, who had thought that such a promising refusal would fill him with joy, instead found himself a little rankled that Lady Catherine was rejecting him.

  I am a Duke, he thought mulishly, it's not like they're proposing marriage to the stable boy. Still, a small prickle of shame needled his conscience; Lady Catherine was the innocent party in all this. She had been caught up in an affair that was entirely of his making, he would have to at least attempt a little humility.

  "Don't be silly, dear," his mother said, brushing off the young woman's protest, "There is little else that can be done to remedy the matter, bar a quick wedding. Raff, you will have to write to the Archbishop at once and request a special licence."

  "I hardly think --"

  "With all due respect, Albright," Lord Drakefield cut in decisively. "I believe the time for thinking has long since passed. We have now reached the point of action, of which you must buck up and take charge." He finished his point by brandishing the poker he still clasped in his paw, as if it were a sword that he would run through the Duke if he so much as protested.