by Eva Devon
Tony fought the urge to stuff his hands in his pockets and kick the polished floor. “Not to me.”
Ellesmere leaned forward and whispered, “You’re going to have to seduce your own wife.”
Seduce Eleanor? Impossible. Wasn’t it?
“But how does one seduce an innocent who has no wish to be seduced?” he pointed out. “In fact, she seems to find the means to seduction appalling. What does one do with such a woman? How does one persuade her?”
Tony had no idea. He’d avoided such ladies like the plague.
Ellesmere had the temerity to grin again. “Very carefully.”
Tony threw up his hands. “You’re no help.”
Ellesmere nodded merrily. “But I am enjoying myself.”
Tony growled. “A sadist, are you?”
Shaking his head, Ellesmere defended himself. “This is the first time I’ve ever seen you at a loss as to what to do.”
Sighing, Tony lamented, “I hope it doesn’t last long.”
This time, Ellesmere fairly bellowed with laughter. “Knowing the lady, it could last an eternity.”
“Sod off, Ellesmere. Sod off.”
Then Tony turned, mulling his friend’s words and began to formulate a plan. To seduce his wife in an unorthodox way. After all, it was for the good of the dukedom, and his own sanity.
Chapter 11
“Tony is such a dear,” proclaimed the Duchess of Hunt, her intelligent eyes sparkling as she sipped her champagne.
“Isn’t he?” the Duchess of Roth agreed, giving a nod of her red head.
“Marvelous fellow,” chimed in the Duchess of Blackburn, lifting her own flute to her mouth which always seemed to be tiled in a smile.
Eleanor had no idea how she had been surrounded by a bevy of duchesses but she had. In the long room of the Aston townhouse, where chandeliers sparkled in the summer sunlight, casting rainbows about the room, everyone was making merry, drinking French wine and eating canapés of salmon mousse and chilled fruit.
The formal affair was lightened considerably by the several children, including Tony’s sisters, darting about the chamber, consuming marzipan and lemonade.
The Duchesses, as she’d begun to think of them, were certainly a cheery lot. They had enveloped her almost at once in a circle of beautiful gowns, elegant jewels, and delightful conversation.
She still was uncertain how she’d been so encircled. One moment, she’d been feeling terribly out of place, an imposter, really, amidst the most powerful people in England despite her own wealth and title. Yet, they swooped in on her as if they had all been friends for ages.
Glittering, stunning ladies, the lot of them.
She felt like a pigeon amidst swans in her simple, yet costly gown. There was also her manner, which did not glitter. Not at all. At least, not comparably.
Champagne bubbled in every bejeweled hand, constantly refilled by efficient footmen in red and gold braided livery.
Her own glass was half-empty. She’d never tasted champagne. Her guardian had not permitted her to imbibe in anything luxurious. She found she quite liked the brightness of it. The bubbles danced on her tongue. The French wine also made her feel positively lightheaded, something rather welcome at this monumental moment in her life.
For the first time, she was the center of attention of the most important women of society. It was. . . Overwhelming to say the very least.
“You’re a fortunate lady,” the Duchess of Roth declared firmly, her whip-like body, clothed in the most sumptuous of pink silk. One might have thought a gown of such a feminine color would make the redheaded duchess appear girlish. Instead, the striped silk skimmed her long frame without a single furbelow, emphasizing her long legs. The neck was scooped dangerously low, baring pale swells.
In fact, all the ladies were dressed to perfection in rich fabric, bosoms on display.
Eleanor found herself admiring the lush, beautiful gowns. She’d always liked them, but they’d not been permitted and she’d had to do the best she could with the funds she’d been given.
She could change that now. The idea was positively thrilling.
Eleanor nodded to the duchess, knowing she must simply play along with Ayr’s praise. It would be impossible to convey her true feelings to these ladies. How on earth could she explain that though she held admiration for Ayr, she had no intention of falling victim to it?
So, instead, she replied, “Of course. What woman doesna long to be a duchess?”
“Oh, it’s not that,” the Duchess of Roth protested, waving her slim fingers towards Ayr across the room with the Earl of Ellesmere, as a knowing look sparkled in her eyes.
Eleanor drank her champagne far more quickly than she’d intended and a passing footman took her glass and instantly replaced it.
“He actually likes women,” the beautiful, blonde-haired Duchess of Hunt whispered from behind her hand, as if it were the most shocking thing in the entire world.
Eleanor narrowed her eyes, finding it suddenly irritating that her husband was the source of so much admiration. “I have heard about his reputation,” she said tightly.
Sighing, the Duchess of Roth shook her red head. “No, Duchess. No. I won’t deny that he’s a bit of a Lothario. What young man of such looks, fortune, and good humor is not? But that is not what I am intimating. He doesn’t just enjoy ladies in the way which you imply. He actually listens to ladies.”
That gave her pause. Anthony Burke listened to ladies?
Was that why he kept asking her what she wanted? Because he would actually listen? The idea seemed impossible. But why would the Duchess of Roth say such a thing if it were not true?
“He pays attention,” added the Duchess of Blackburn who bounced happily on her toes, causing her ample bosom to dance. “So many men only nod and wait for their turn to speak. Not Tony.”
Did they all know him so well? It seemed so. She considered their flood of comments regarding her new husband.
There was the fact that he had asked her twice if he could kiss her. He had not tried to take. No, he had requested. And when she had resisted, he had not pressed, respecting her wishes. The revelation of this was fairly earth shaking.
Was it possible that, in all actuality, her husband was a very good man?
“And he will care about you,” put in the Duchess of Hunt. “As will we all.”
Once again, she was stunned as she looked about the beautiful, bright, society ladies. Each and every one of them was a triumph in her own right. She’d never even spoken to most of them in her entire life. They were all those far off stars that most of the ton longed to be, but could not. And there was nothing unkind about them.
That was exactly the opposite of what she had expected. For some reason, she had expected them to barely accept her into their ranks because they seemed such fast friends. Instead, they were generously opening their arms to her.
“You’ve joined a family,” the Duchess of Aston said at last, having merely observed her friends in the praise of her stepson. She linked her arm with Eleanor’s. “I hope you understand that.”
“We all support each other, you see,” the Duchess of Roth added happily. “Odd people must.”
Eleanor blinked and blurted, “Am I odd?”
The four duchesses looked back at her, smiling.
“Oh dear,” she sighed.
“You must wear it as a badge of honor, m’dear,” the Duchess of Aston professed, her Scottish burr thick with delight.
“We do,” said the Duchess of Blackburn cheekily as she snatched a canapé passing by. Brightly, she popped it into her mouth and sighed with delight.
All her life she’d conformed, worse than conformed. She’d been immensely conservative in her behavior, except for that summer when she’d planned to elope. Yet, here was a group of women who never had behaved according the rules of society and likely never would.
Their happiness and confidence was palpable. Could she have that? As she gazed about the powerf
ul women around her, it began to dawn on her that she could. She could leave the past behind and be the lady she had always longed to be if she but had the courage and will.
“Welcome to our ranks,” the Duchess of Aston said, raising her glass of champagne. “You shall grow fairly sick of us, but we willna mind. It is no easy thing to face the world alone, and now you dunna have to.”
In a veritable fountain of emotion, the ladies before her seemed to bubble with enthusiasm and goodwill.
The Duchess of Aston suddenly embraced her.
And then the Duchess of Roth.
And then, to her amazement, the Duchesses of Hunt and Blackburn!
She was not certain if she had ever been hugged so often in her life.
Unused to affection, she stood as still as a poker, held in a veritable cocoon of womanhood. For the first time, the very first time, she felt completely a part of something.
“What a marvelous sight!” a deep, male voice declared and the ladies all turned towards the larger than life Duke of Aston.
“Are you about to declare how much you love weddings, mon?” his wife teased.
“But I do adore weddings. Who doesn’t love a wedding?” He peered at Eleanor. His lion-like mane was wild about his strong face, a face that looked remarkably like Tony’s. “Don’t you adore them?”
She couldn’t truly say that she did. “I have little experience with them. But mine seems a very pleasant affair.”
He grinned down at her and placed a giant but gentle hand on her shoulder. “Well said, well said, dear duchess.
His praise did the strangest thing to her, for she’d had little of it in her life and from such a person. It filled her just a bit with joy.
He leaned down then and placed the lightest of kisses upon her cheek. “I’m delighted that you are my daughter.”
She stared up at the imposing, some might say frighteningly wild, Duke of Aston and swallowed. His daughter. It had never truly occurred to her until just now that she was. Of course, not by blood. But they were family.
Tears stung her eyes. She had not had family in so long.
The feelings that crashed upon her were so large and powerful that she lifted a hand to her mouth and blinked rapidly. For the first time she could recall, she could not speak.
“Come now, come now.” The Duke of Aston pulled her into a fatherly embrace. “Every bride should be a watering pot at some point at their wedding. If they don’t, the thing hasn’t been done properly.”
She laughed, the sound bubbling up as if from a deep spring inside her. Wiping her eyes, she managed, “Thank you, Your Grace.”
The reassuring feel of his arms rocked her. She had not thought how hungry she was for family or for kindness. True kindness. She had known so little of it.
Slowly, she gazed across the room to her new husband who was in deep conversation with the Earl of Ellesmere.
Family.
That was exactly what he was. A husband, true. But family still, and she had not had that since she was a child.
The brief opportunity she’d had at it had been most cruelly taken from her. Would she throw it away now that she had a chance at it again?
As she gazed then at the kind faces around her, her heart beat so hard it was almost painful.
She had thought that she would never be cared for. Never be treated so kindly again.
Once, she’d been a loved child, cosseted and embraced. It had been stolen from her. And then, once again, love had been seized. Did she dare allow herself to be cared for by these people? Not loved. She wouldn’t risk that.
But surely. . . She could find peace with them. Happiness, even.
She had to. She would make this new situation and her vow work together. Somehow. Somehow, she could find a way not to betray her lost love and the promise she’d made to protect her heart and still be part of this.
No matter what she had to do. So, she stepped from the Duke of Aston’s embrace, lifted her head high, and crossed the room, determined to begin her new life with the man she’d married. Even if she knew him not at all. Even if she could not be the wife he might want. She would still find a way forward.
Chapter 12
Tony sat, his polished boots propped on a low, inlaid, Italian table, before the fire in his room. His starched cravat was finally off, his shirt open at the neck, the wedding coat off, and not at all at ease.
The flames leapt and crackled in the large fireplace. He lifted the glass of whiskey imported from Ireland to his lips. Brandy was a most noble beverage, but he was in agreement with the Scots and Irish that whiskey was the water of the gods.
He sipped at the triple distilled liquor, hoping to eventually dull his senses to the fact that his new and very beautiful wife was asleep in the adjoining room. Without him.
Dropping his head back against the cushioned, wood-carved chair that might have been mistaken for a throne by someone born to the fields as he had been, he fought the urge to get up and pace his room. He had no wish to keep her awake, or let her know that he was stewing whilst she reposed. Ayr Place was old. The floorboards creaked.
So, sit he would and, somehow, do a tangled dance with his varied thoughts and well. . . His desire for the lady next door.
The Jacobean house that had once been on the outskirts of London was now on the edge of the prestigious West End. And even though it wasn’t new by recent standards, he found he was quite fond of the sprawling building. In fact, he far preferred it to the newly-built houses crowding this part of town. New houses had no character. No history. There was no mystery to them, except whether the builders had been paid.
Here, he liked to imagine all the political intrigue that had likely occurred in it by the past dukes as religious and political conflict befell the country time and again throughout the Stewart dynasty.
He swung his gaze to the shelves which were packed tightly with his favorite books. He’d had them brought in two weeks ago. When he’d seen the bareness of the room’s shelves, he’d fairly shuddered.
Had his predecessor not read? He could hardly imagine such a thing. Reading was his great haven. As a child, he’d barely been able to read a few letters and couldn’t even scratch his own name. That had changed when he’d come into his father’s presence. Whole worlds had been opened to him then as his father patiently and kindly taught him to read. Shakespeare, John Donne, Plutarch, Rousseau, Thomas Paine, Aristotle, Dryden. The pages of books held the answer to every sorrow, every joy, every dilemma. And if the present was becoming just a bit too unbearable, well, one could always vanish into the beautiful pages of a manuscript. The feel of leather binding beneath his fingertips was bliss. Really, there was only one thing to compare. And he wasn’t going to be doing that particular activity any time soon. So, books it was.
A history book. That was what he needed. An engrossing history book with dates and facts and battles to drag his thoughts away from the fact that his wife had doubtlessly let down her dark hair, brushed it in slow strokes and donned her night rail over her strong body.
He loved that about her. She looked like a woman ready to take action. There was nothing overly soft about her. Not her mind, not her body. In fact, he had a feeling that she’d be able to keep up with him in any activity they chose. His fingers curled. Yes, he loved that about her. Her strength, her power.
In truth, he was fairly certain that her only softness lay in the vulnerability she showed in regards to the painful nature of her rearing. It was there, when she spoke of the past.
Today, during the elaborate wedding, he’d been half-afraid she might not come, despite her promise. But she had, thank God. And he’d noticed right away that she had been ill at ease at their wedding breakfast. Even though he struggled to know how to win her, he did feel that he could sense her shifts in emotion, much as one might feel the air change with the first hints of a storm.
He had been at a temporary loss as how to rectify that. It had gnawed at him. But once The Duchesses, as he li
ked to think of them, had gotten a hold of her, she had brightened. Considerably.
He scowled. He would have liked to have been the one to do such a thing, but it wasn’t to be expected. Rome was not built in a day.
With Eleanor, it might take him a few centuries. Still, he was hopeful. What else could he be without turning into one of those people he had made light of most of his life.
Standing, the half-full glass grasped by his fingertips, he strode to the bookshelves. He peered at the leather bindings. Subjects from Aristotle, to Attila, to Alexander, all the way up to present practices of Napoleon lined his military history shelf. They gave him a moment’s ease, merely lifting his fingertips and running them along the well-loved spines.
Just as he was about to pick Plutarch’s Pluralities, a soft knock filled his room. His hand froze mid-air.
Impossible.
He whipped to the sound, certain he’d been mistaken. It had sounded so tentative.
He stood stock still, not quite believing his exceptional ears.
It came again, a loud rap, like a money collector come round who meant business.
What the devil?
Slowly, he lowered his hand, contemplating the door between their rooms.
Surely, it couldn’t be. Surely, the young lady who’d been rather determined to avoid intimacy was not knocking on his door? After twelve o’clock. On their wedding night.
Even she wasn’t that cruel.
Carefully, he went to the panel that divided his and Eleanor’s rooms.
He placed a hand on the carved wood, bracing himself. No doubt, she had some simple question and then would quickly bid him goodnight and return to her room. Yes, that was it. No need to torture himself that she might have decided that intimacy really was a wonderful thing after all.
He rolled his eyes at his own absurdity.
A throat cleared on the other side of the door. “Your Grace, are you abed?”
His heart thundered in his chest. Abed? If only it were true and with her in it.
