Disciplining the Duchess

by Annabel Joseph

  She shook her head. “I cannot. I cannot even bear to think about it.”

  “Tell me, or I shall force you to waltz with me right now.”

  “Please don’t. I’m hopeless!”

  “Mr. Lightmore has not instructed you in it?”

  When she answered that he hadn’t, Court felt the gentleman redeemed a shade in his eyes.

  “Good. You are not to dance the waltz with anyone other than me. Ever.” As he said it, he began to move with her, a slow rehearsal of the steps.

  “You are always saying things like that,” she said, gripping his shoulder. “How possessive you are.”

  “Perhaps, but I will not apologize for it. I know some couples of the ton think nothing of stepping out on one another, but you’ll never do that with me.”

  “Or you with me,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You must honor our vows too.”

  “I am not the one between us known for making irresponsible and reckless choices.”

  “And I am not the one between us known for depravity and vice. I have no intention of stepping out on you, as you say,” she said, stumbling over one of his feet. “I’m rather insulted to be lectured about it.”

  “Not a lecture.” He arrested her when she would have swayed in the wrong direction. “A warning. Don’t, or I will make you very miserable in consequence.”

  “Warnings and threats don’t become you,” she said, stiffening in the midst of a 1-2-3 beat. “Haven’t I been a good wife to you? I am trying.” She raised her voice slightly and took two steps back from him. “Do you know what happened at Almack’s? I popped out.”

  “You what?”

  “I was waltzing with the Earl of Havershaw and I tripped and he tried to catch me. I grasped at him and fell and at some point my…my bountitude escaped the bodice of my dress.”

  He gaped. “Both…bountitudes?” He could picture it far too easily. “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, her voice gaining outrage by the word. “And Havershaw stood there like a ninny, staring, and numerous other people saw too. I pulled up my bodice but it was too late, and I also scuffed my knee and ripped my favorite stockings, all because I cannot waltz for a prayer. They were right to forbid me, you know.”

  It explained Lord Havershaw’s inability to hold Court’s regard ever since the betrothal. He put a hand to his mouth to hide his smile. “Oh, my dear,” he said. “A debacle indeed.”

  She glared at him. “If you snicker, I may do something very unseemly that you will not like at all, and then you will probably punish me for it afterward and it will be a thoroughgoing mess.”

  “I don’t wish to laugh,” he said, “but I may not be able to help myself. The Earl of Havershaw, of all people. He wouldn’t know what to do with your ‘bountitudes’ if they landed in his outstretched hands.” He gave her a look. “They didn’t, did they?”

  “No. Although I believe he fainted afterward, which was probably what I should have done. Perhaps then I wouldn’t have had my waltzing privileges revoked.”

  “No,” said Court, struggling to hold back the mirth that choked him. “I’m quite certain it was over for you the moment your bodice failed you.”

  “You see, it wasn’t my fault, it was the way I fell!” She began making vague gestures of illustration that finally defeated him. He burst into laughter as she stood with her arms crossed over her chest.

  “You’re a fine example of a husband,” she snapped. “Laughing so hard at my misfortune you can barely catch your breath.”

  “It is not misfortune,” he said, wiping his eyes. “If not for this episode, perhaps Havershaw would have fallen in love with you. Courted you, married you. What a shame that would have been.”

  “For him,” Harmony groused. “Not for you.”

  He sobered, took her arm and pulled her close. “Despite what you believe, I am glad we ended up married. Even though I try to improve you, Duchess Bountiful, you must remember that I love you just as you are.”

  She stiffened and pulled away from him. “Oh, Court!”

  He spun at her shrill cry, prepared to guard against the attack of some beast, but Harmony was only bounding over to a spindly rose bush. “Do you see?” She pointed as he came to her side.

  “It is a rose.”

  “It is a winter rose. The only flower in the whole garden. How do you suppose it came to be here?”

  “Er…it grew on that bush?”

  She tore her attention from the downy white flower to scowl at him. “You have no sense of romance. You do not find it spectacular, that this one lone flower thrives here in this icy garden? And so beautifully too.”

  He gazed back at her for a long moment. “I do find it spectacular.” He crouched down beside her to look more closely at the rose, only because he knew she would be upset if he didn’t. He studied the bloom as she traced its contours with a gentle caress. The flower was fully opened, its surfaces smooth and pearlescent. “Such showy petals,” he said quietly. “What now? Must I make a wish on this spectacular and unexpected flower?”

  She shrugged, a little shadow falling across her face. “You might, if you believed in them.”

  “Will you make a wish then?” he asked.

  “I already have,” she said. She of the showy petals, and he, dry and thorny and not given to wishes at all.

  *** *** ***

  Harmony came to love the gardens at the St. James house nearly as much as Court’s comfortable library. When she had to get away, escape the smothering walls and gloomy portraits and constant watchful eyes of servants, she stole to this manicured expanse and breathed the chill air. It was the one place the dowager never came.

  Harmony could almost forget they were in town when she walked deep in the gardens. She could forget about her lessons, about developing pomp and hauteur. She understood that Court had to be close to town to fulfill certain duties, like attending the King’s court and taking his seat in the House of Lords. She was proud to be wife to such a lofty person, and truly wished to remake herself as the elegant lady he deserved. A lady more like Lady Wembley, Court’s ideal.

  He never said aloud that Lady Wembley was his ideal but it was plain enough she was eminently suited to be the wife of an esteemed figure like him. Lady Wembley and her husband were coming to dinner this very night and Harmony was pleased to hear it, for she planned to study the lady and emulate her in any way she could.

  Court was not so pleased. At least, he hadn’t acted pleased when his mother surprised him with news of the dinner plans. After riding with Harmony in the park, he escorted her back to the house and raced off on his horse in a great temper. Poor Spartan. The stallion was probably accustomed to his master’s moods. He probably enjoyed being ridden well and hard now and again. Like you, Harmony.

  She put her hands over her eyes, horrified by her increasingly corrupt thoughts. How could her husband expect her to become a refined lady considering the things he did to her behind doors? She shook her head and hurried to the house to seek out Redcliff’s guidance in what to wear for the dinner party. She would do her best to make her husband proud.

  On her way back to the house, she saw a hound limp across the lawn and slink into the cover of some trees. Poor thing. She thought it was too large to be one of Courtland’s dogs, but if it was in pain it ought to be seen to. Against her better judgment, she hurried to the stables to tell Jeb to alert the groundskeeper about the unfortunate creature.

  Now, running late, she proceeded upstairs to prepare for dinner. Redcliff insisted she bathe, and Harmony enjoyed the warm water after the bite of wintry weather outside. She dried off and regarded her face in the mirror as Redcliff bustled around the dressing room, collecting combs and pieces of jewelry.

  “I have to look perfect,” she told her lady’s maid. “Hair, gown, everything.”

  “We ought to put you into the silver flocked dress His Grace favors, with the gilded trim. We can use matching silver ribbons in your hair.”

  Har
mony clapped her hands. “Oh yes, Redcliff. It shall be magical. It is not too much for dinner, is it?”

  “Not at all, but let’s begin,” the woman said, moving to the armoire that held the silver gown. “The Wembleys and Tremaynes have already arrived, and the Runnenbarths are sure to arrive soon. Her Grace the Dowager will be terribly cross if you delay her dinner party.”

  Harmony sat at the vanity. “I am yours.”

  The maid worked quickly, transforming her from regular old Harmony to the refined Duchess of Courtland. The high-waisted bodice of her dress fit like a second skin, while the skirt draped in a perfect silhouette. Matching silver slippers and teardrop jewelry at her neck and ears were understated but pretty. Harmony thought her bosom would always be too ample for true elegance, but all in all, the effect was not bad.

  Battling time and the summons of a maid from belowstairs, Mrs. Redcliff curled her hair and pulled it up into a pile of silver-threaded ribbon and jeweled flowers.

  “Oh, Redcliff,” Harmony sighed, standing to look in the full-length mirror. “How marvelous you are. It is truly perfect.”

  A smile played around the edge of the older lady’s lips. “Wait until His Grace gets a look at you. Now, you must be gone downstairs. Don’t delay.”

  A movement from the window caught Harmony’s eye. Oh, the poor creature, the dog, it was positively lame. It must have broken a leg. She could see Merit, the groundskeeper, trying to stalk the frightened hound and corral it away from the trees with Jeb’s help. “Yes, I will go down at once,” Harmony said.

  She would just quickly, very quickly pop outside to be certain Merit had everything in hand.

  Chapter Fifteen: Understanding

  Court prayed for calm as his mother shot him vicious looks across the parlor. Their dinner guests milled about exchanging news and pleasantries. Unfortunately, the soup was already in the dining room growing cold.

  “Let us proceed to the table,” he said. “Doubtless the duchess will join us soon.”

  His mother’s face looked even more sour, if such a thing was possible. She had arranged this dinner as a petty form of revenge for a disagreement they’d had a few days before about whether or not to engage the king’s French cook’s assistant for the Courtland ball. Court very much enjoyed the work of their own French cook, who was extremely moody and likely to quit if he were thrown over, even for one evening. The dowager was obsessed with King George due to some distant family connection Court suspected was made up, and therefore grasped at every opportunity to bring royal influences to the household.

  As for the Wembleys and Gwen’s parents, the Tremaynes, she’d invited them to confound him and humiliate Harmony. The Runnenbarths were invited to act as an additional audience to his comeuppance. The dowager’s companion Mrs. Lyndon would surely serve in that capacity too. Curse this dinner party and his mother’s blasted spite.

  She could spite him to hell and back. He still would not allow her to engage the King’s cook’s assistant, nor even the King’s cook himself.

  And where was Harmony when he needed her? Why could he not manage these two unruly women in his life, when he managed the complex politics of England, the machinations of the court of the Prince Regent, and his own exorbitant wealth and holdings? Her seat across the table sat empty as the guests enjoyed cook’s winter specialty of spiced squash soup. In yet more spiteful glee, his mother had placed Gwen at his right hand. How properly she sat, and how delicately she sipped from her spoon.

  Well, Harmony could eat soup with the best of ladies now. She had made fine progress in manners, if not promptness. Where the devil was she? He glared at one of the footmen, enough of a signal to send the man running to fetch the housekeeper and send her personally this time to bring Harmony down to join the group. That, or some indication that she was ill and with regrets would not be joining them. Such cowardice did not seem typical of his wife, but it couldn’t please her to be compared to his former inamorata in such an intimate and formal setting. He could understand such cowardice, although he couldn’t let it pass without some punishment. An over-the-knee spanking at least.

  He looked up, realizing he’d barely been following the conversation. Gwen must have asked him a question since she was looking at him intently. To his relief, she repeated her question again. “I wonder if you have enjoyed being married? The duchess seems so very kind a lady. So charming and sweet.”

  Her words were sincere, not satirical. Bless Gwen, she was never one to sneer at another, which was one of the things he’d adored about her. His mother, meanwhile, puffed out her cheeks in an effort not to scoff out loud.

  “She has brought me much happiness,” Court said with a true smile. “She’s brought a lot of life to the household.”

  “That’s wonderful to hear, Your Grace.”

  Court heard her reply but beneath her softly spoken words he also heard Harmony. She wasn’t coming from the hall. In fact, it seemed as if she was coming from the kitchens. His mother’s eyes went wide, hearing her too. “Courtland—” she began, and then all hell broke loose.

  The double doors on the far wall burst open, sending one footman flying. Harmony and his groundskeeper entered, chasing a baying, lame hound with wild eyes. Both Harmony and his man’s clothes were covered in dirt.

  “Catch him,” Harmony shrieked, going the opposite direction of his servant. “Help us!”

  Everyone at the table gawked but a handful of footmen, fine in their dinner livery, stiffly joined the chase.

  “Is it not Sir Radley’s old dog?” Gwen asked in bewilderment from his side.

  Court was too flabbergasted to reply. The panicked cur limped under the table. The ladies screamed in unison while the gentlemen grunted and pushed back their chairs.

  “Courtland, do something,” his mother wailed, fanning the prostrate Mrs. Lyndon, who had fainted back in her chair.

  But he felt frozen. He could do nothing. He watched Harmony dive beneath the table along with the groundskeeper. “He’s scared,” she called out. “Don’t hurt him.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” his man replied respectfully, as if he was not under a table with the duchess struggling to catch a dirty, injured dog.

  “There,” came Harmony’s voice. “Push him this way, and I shall guide him out. Oh!”

  The mass of brown and black fur exploded from beneath the table right into his mother’s lap. Her chair tipped back and she grabbed for the tablecloth. Court watched orange spiced soup explode over Lady Runnenbarth and the Tremaynes’ laps and then onto his mother as her chair finally upset, dumping her on her side. She let out a scream and he jumped to his feet. The entire room was a tangle of flailing men and screeching women, orange soup, a panting dog, and a flash of silver that was his wife. The dog, wife, and groundskeeper flew out the way they’d come, leaving him to collect his shrieking mother from the floor.

  Maids and footmen streamed in, dabbing at the guests, cleaning spills and soothing the ladies. His mother gazed up at him in pain, her hand twisted at an unnatural angle. “My wrist,” she cried. “Please, send for my physician.” With those words, she promptly joined her friend Mrs. Lyndon in passing out cold.

  *** *** ***

  Harmony hid in the stables, behind a pile of straw in the farthest corner. She heard carriages come and go, saw Jeb lead out horses and take in new ones. A doctor came. That made her shake. What had she done? What would Court do to her when he came for her?

  He would have to come get her. She could not make herself go to the house and face the chaos she’d wrought there. At least Sir Radley’s dog was okay, caught and splinted and returned home. Just a sprain, said one of the men who helped her. The poor dog had been so afraid. Now she was the one afraid, and cold and miserable. She wanted to burrow into the pile of straw and hide forever.

  For two hours she cried into her hands and worried at every sound. What would she do when he came for her? What if he didn’t come for her? What if he finally washed his hands of her? She wasn’t
improving, she wasn’t growing more refined, she wasn’t even falling pregnant with an heir. She was failing him in every way. What if he was so angry he sent her back to her father in disgrace, to live apart from him the rest of her days?

  Why hadn’t she let the dog be? Why hadn’t she let Merit handle everything and gone downstairs to dinner? She’d had a dog that looked a lot like Sir Radley’s dog when she was a young girl. She still remembered the way he followed her around. She remembered burying her face in his fur when she felt sad or alone. Sobs racked her as memories crowded in. She’d felt so sad and alone her whole life, but never more so than now.

  She heard low voices, Jeb and her husband. She inched farther back into her dark corner, her only light that of the mournful moon. It reflected off her pale silver gown until she practically shone. So much for hiding. She closed her eyes as his footfalls drew nearer. She didn’t want to see his expression, his anger. His voice, when he spoke, was not gruff nor gentle, only very cool. “You cannot hide out here all night.”

  Tears squeezed from beneath her lids as she spoke against her palms. “You can’t want me in the house.”

  “If my mother had her way, you would never be let back in the house. You broke her wrist. Well, that confounded dog that knocked her over.”

  She huddled into an even smaller ball. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Look at me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You have no problem acting the crazed hoyden in front of a roomful of people but you can’t look at me now? Look at me,” he said again, and this time the command in his voice had her head whipping up, her eyes focusing miserably on his. He drew a breath, another, not a trace of softness in his stance or features.

  “Normally I would give you a chance to explain yourself, but I can’t see any plausible explanation here except that, rather than join the dinner party as you were told, you went chasing after a damn stray dog.”

  “He was injur—”

  “He was not your problem. Are you in charge of the neighborhood animals?”