If I Were a Duke

by Eva Devon

  His lips curved in a smile. Somehow, he was going to persuade her to call him Anthony, Tony preferably. Even if it killed him.

  He opened the door slowly, guarded.

  The firelight glowed behind her, leaving her in a halo of golden red. It seemed as if he could do nothing but stare.

  Dark hair framed her pale face in a lush cloud. It tumbled over her shoulders, teasing the simple gray silk robe tied tight about her body.

  Beneath the robe, he was certain she was in naught but her night rail.

  It was the way the fabric fell over her curves, skimming them.

  The curves of her body beneath the gown were perfect, promising. He ground his teeth together for he could not do as he desired which was to bare them to his vision.

  Not yet.

  Not yet.

  “Your Grace?” she prompted, her brow puckering. “Are you quite well?”

  He jolted, and teased, “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Much to his delight, she smiled.

  She twisted her hands together then, as if noticing her own nervous gesture, she dropped them to her sides. “I. . . I canna sleep.”

  “Nor can I,” he confessed, wondering where this conversation was headed. Not to bed. But where?

  She glanced behind him, sneaking a look into the room. “Shall we keep each other company?”

  “If you like,” he said even as he longed to groan. It was going to be pure torture. Delicious torture. But torture nonetheless, conversing with her in such a state of dishabille. Still, if he was going to win her confidence, he couldn’t very well turn such a chance down, now could he?

  He stepped back from the doorway, giving a half-bow, urging her to enter.

  The hem of her robe brushed his boot and the scent of roses and lilacs wafted from her locks as she passed.

  Closing his eyes, he drank it in. He curved his free hand into a fist, willing his body to behave. He couldn’t exactly go about hard as a stone with little to hide the fact but his tight breeches. She’d run in horror if she noticed it.

  Sometimes, it was damned inconvenient being a man. He loved his cock, but it did sometimes have a mind of its own that did not care to listen to better reason.

  Still, he wasn’t an animal. He was an enlightened gentleman. Repeating this sentiment, he drew in a long, cooling breath.

  Eleanor turned slowly about the room, gazing about until she stopped, fixated on the ancient bed which was large enough for five people to sleep in.

  He loved the great thing for he was a big man. It was always a nuisance when he didn’t fit in a bed. He’d awake with some part of him hanging in the air. In this, he was fairly certain that he and Eleanor would fit splendidly.

  Cursing, he redirected his wayward thoughts.

  Quickly, she pulled her gaze away from the bed. It seemed she, too, was contemplating its purpose. She slowly angled towards him.

  “Did you have a good day?” she asked with slight formality.

  He lifted his glass to his lips, drank, then replied, “You came.”

  Her brows lifted slightly. “Did you truly think I would not?”

  He could not fight a soft laugh. “It had crossed my mind.”

  “I told you last night I would come,” she tsked. “I would never agree to something and then renege. It is not who I am.”

  “Of course,” he acquiesced, “but a gentleman does grow rather nervous at the front of a great nave such as St. Paul’s has, hundreds of people watching, and waiting for the bride to arrive.”

  She laughed. “I never thought of that. It must have been nerve-racking for you. Truth be told, I was concerned I might trip over my train. I’ve never worn anything so long before.”

  Absolutely delighted by their exchange, he smiled. “We both had our concerns.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you have a good day?” he asked in turn.

  “It far exceeded my expectations,” she said perfunctorily, rocking on her toes.

  Her reply startled him. “How so?”

  She gave him a mysterious look. “It’s my secret.”

  “Are we to have secrets then?” he asked, surprised. Eleanor did not seem the sort of woman to have secrets.

  She gave him a puzzled look. “Doesna everyone?”

  He considered this. What was he to say? “I suppose they must. We cannot be completely transparent.”

  Clasping her hands before her, she appeared unsure. “I lied to you.”

  He took a step forward, cocking his head to the side. This was most interesting. “Did you, now?”

  She nodded, the pulse at her throat fluttering.

  “You’ve come to confess?” he asked gently.

  “Well, it’s not exactly a lie,” she defended quickly. “I could not sleep. . . And I do want your company. But I was hoping. . . I was hoping. . .”

  “Yes?” he asked, a wave of desire pulsing through him as he hoped for the impossible. Hoped that she’d come to bridge the divide between them.

  She lifted that marvelous chin of hers and said firmly as if declaring a high decree, “I should like to consummate our marriage.”

  The practicality of her words did the most confusing thing to him. For surely, it should please him, but she said it with the same sort of excitement as one announcing a trip to the tooth extractor. It was an edict. Not a proposition. And oh, how he realized, he longed for Eleanor to proposition him.

  “I see,” he said, barely able to hide his disappointment.

  “It’s best, dunna you think?” Briefly, her hands fidgeted. “To get on with it?”

  “To get on with it?” he echoed, before he took a long drink. Surely, he was going to need it if this was where the night was headed.

  She nodded. And then without waiting for him to make further reply, she trotted towards his bed.

  In a way it might have been amusing if the situation wasn’t so suddenly awful. She braced her hands on the high mattress then hoisted herself up onto the bed with a small oomph.

  “What the devil are you doing?” he asked, not sure if he was furious or simply reeling with horror from the idea of getting on with it with her.

  She rolled over and arched a skeptical brow at him. “Making ready, of course.”

  And then, to his most definite horror, she laid back on the bed, atop the counterpane, stiff as a board.

  “I’m ready,” she called, gaze focused on the embroidered blue canopy.

  “Well, I’m not,” he retorted, trying rather unsuccessfully to hide his dismay.

  “Do you require a moment?” she asked, her face still directed away from him.

  He gazed at his whisky. There wasn’t enough of it in the world to cope with this particular moment.

  “If you must know, right now, I’m uncertain as to how to proceed,” he drawled.

  “I do have a rudimentary idea if you need assistance,” she said, “but I rather thought you were an expert.”

  A strangled note choked in his throat.

  “Och, are you quite all right?” she asked, propping herself up on her elbows.

  “No,” he groaned. He’d been right. His marriage was going to be hell. Absolute hell. Somewhere, the gods were laughing at him.

  She frowned. “Do you need a glass of water? Or perhaps a—”

  “No, thank you,” he cut in, trying not to laugh at the idea that a glass of water could cure this.

  “Right then.” Her fingers inched to her robe and she started to work the material upward. “You may begin. When you are ready, of course.”

  In the firelight, he spotted her long, pale legs and his hand tightened on his glass. They were perfection, but perfection would not compete with her lack of enthusiasm and the fact she clearly had no intention of disrobing or seeing him disrobe.

  “Is this what you have in mind?” he asked, attempting to remain calm in the face of her determination.

  “I do believe so,” she said. Then she rolled her head towards him and inquired, “Are you going
to remain over there?”

  He shook his head then strode to the bed, completely at a loss.

  This couldn’t be how it was to be, could it?

  So, he decided there was really only one way to find out her intent.

  Slowly, he bent, planning to kiss her.

  Her eyes flared instantly and she inched away. Her sudden look of horror told him she hadn’t meant to do that. But she had. There was no escaping that she did not truly wish to do this.

  “Eleanor,” he sighed.

  “I’ve told you, I’m not affectionate,” she protested. Then in a hopeful voice, she asked, “Shall we just do what needs to be done?”

  He groaned. Again. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “But—”

  “I’m not an animal, Eleanor,” he bit out, raking his gaze up her still-clothed body and meeting her innocent, completely perplexed gaze. He gestured to her, up and down. “Not entirely. I can’t just. . .”

  Her fingers loosened on her robe and dug into the bedding. “Canna just what, may I ask?”

  How the hell did he say this politely? He couldn’t. He just couldn’t. She needed to understand. So, he blurted, “Rut you and be done.”

  “Can you not?” she asked, a definite note of disappointment in her lush burr.

  “No,” he ground out.

  She pursed her lips, clearly still determined. “Canna you simply close your eyes and—”

  “No!” he roared and, before he could stop himself, he turned and strode to the still-open door between their rooms, vaulted through it, and slammed it shut.

  As he stood in his wife’s room, he couldn’t quite draw breath.

  What the devil had just happened?

  He’d told her he wasn’t going to close his eyes and breed for duty and country.

  Had she not understood what that meant?

  And when he’d tried to kiss her. . .

  A man could really only take so much rejection. No, he couldn’t do it. He wasn’t about to close his eyes and think of another woman, or fantasize that she wanted him so that he might simply perform the deed as she so seemed to desire.

  He needed her to desire him. Desire him enough to at least put her arms around him.

  “Ayr?” she called from the other side of the door.

  “Goodnight, Eleanor,” he ground out. “I have a headache.”

  The last words nearly killed him, but there it was. He was going to bloody well have a headache until his wife would kiss him, at the very least.

  And he wasn’t going to relent until he could convince her that it really wasn’t such an appalling thing.

  Chapter 13

  Eleanor sat up on Ayr’s bed and stared at the now closed door.

  Well, that had most defiantly not gone the way she thought it would.

  What the blazes was she to do now? She dug her fingers into the counterpane considering her actions, trying to decide which moment had been the one which had driven Ayr out of his own room.

  He’d seemed pleased to see her when she’d ventured into his room. Very pleased. But when she’d gone to the bed, he hadn’t followed.

  In fact, he’d tensed and his face had shuttered. Then he’d flown as if she were a demon, not his young wife.

  Was she so appalling? She looked down at herself. There was nothing strange about her appearance. Surely, there was naught wrong with her person?

  Didn’t men wish to simply bed their wives?

  A niggling voice in her head whispered that Anthony Burke was different.

  Different?

  That didn’t half-cover her husband who was unlike any other man she’d ever met.

  He didn’t wish to simply do his duty. After all, duty was almost certainly a new addition to his life which, if she was willing to admit, had been one of freedom and passion until now.

  Drat.

  She nibbled her lip.

  She supposed she could slide off the bed and pursue him. But he’d left with such finality that it was probably best if she let him alone just now.

  She eyed the crystal bottle near the fire then shrugged.

  It had been a very long, very strange day.

  Slipping off the bed, she paused for one moment, then slid into Ayr’s large chair and took a glass from the table beside it.

  Pouring herself a bit, she contemplated the amber-hued liquor then lifted her glass. She toasted herself and her terrible night.

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  She sipped the stuff then coughed. Goodness! It burned down her throat, causing her eyes to water.

  Whatever was it? It would serve. That’s what.

  She’d always been a good strategist. Her guardian had necessitated it. But, in this, she’d calculated poorly. Very poorly, indeed.

  Och.

  Anthony Burke was not a man who could climb into his bed and simply get on with it as she’d urged. Now, in the light of the fire, drink in hand, she knew it had been a very poorly chosen phrase.

  She doubted Ayr had ever simply just gotten on with something in his life. He either did it fully, with passion, or not at all.

  It was odd because she’d always assumed that men were not particularly concerned with what women wanted or their desires.

  James had loved her. She knew that. And his kisses had been acceptable, but he’d never seemed to think passion between them was a necessity.

  If anything, he’d been in the ranks of men who valued what she’d always been told was a good woman. A woman who was beautiful, efficient, and calm.

  Oh. She’d been very happy with James but she’d never been overcome. Ladies weren’t supposed to be overcome. Ladies were supposed to be. . . Ladies.

  But Anthony Burke had not been born a gentleman. And while he’d certainly known the company of ladies, those ladies. . . Behaved very differently than she did.

  That left her with the sudden and rather horrifying deduction that he did not wish his wife to always be a lady.

  This left her on completely foreign ground. After all, she’d always been disciplined for any behavior that had not been deemed appropriate.

  A walk alone with James had seemed scandalous.

  Ayr kept wanting to kiss her.

  She took another drink, bracing herself.

  Why was kissing so very necessary? It was merely the meeting of lips, a bit of a messy business, if she were asked. And it was intimate. Two faces close together? Trusting? She’d preferred to avoid anything which would put them on such ground.

  Was that truly what he wanted? For her to kiss him? But it felt like such a betrayal of James and a dangerous road to go down.

  Ayr had told her he expected more than duty, yet she’d resisted.

  What a coil. Who could she discuss this with? Who could advise her?

  No one. Not truly. Such a thing would be impossible to discuss with any lady she knew, for she had no friends except, possibly, her maid, Margaret, and she did not feel prepared to share such a thing with the woman.

  Then again, Margaret had not been born a lady. Perhaps, she could offer insight into what her husband expected.

  She took another swallow of her husband’s liquor. In all her life, she’d always taken matters into her own hands, managing as best she could.

  She wasn’t about to give that up now. And given her newfound commitment to the society of her husband, this was a puzzle she needed to solve.

  So, she stood, and decided to do the only thing she could. She hurried out of her husband’s room and into the dark hall. Much to her good fortune in this, she knew the house better than she knew her own hands. After all, she’d had to inspect it often enough to keep it in the condition her guardian expected.

  Heading down to the west stairs, she mounted the narrow, unadorned steps towards the servant’s corridor.

  If she was caught, it would be deuced awkward. Especially, she realized, since she still held the glass in her hands.

  She drew in a fortifying breath. There was no turni
ng back now.

  Pattering silently down the simple corridor, she stopped at her maid’s room, lifted her hand then rapped softly.

  There was a stir on the other side of the door and then the door swung open, revealing a blinking Margaret, her white mobcap askew.

  The moment she spotted Eleanor, her brown eyes flared. “Your Grace!” she exclaimed. “Are you unwell?”

  “Yes,” she announced practically. “May I come in?”

  Margaret’s mouth fell open. But then she stood back and allowed her mistress in.

  Eleanor entered the small chamber and looked about.

  Unlike her own chamber, this was a very small room with a single bed tucked into the corner, with one small desk accompanied by a spindly chair. A tiny mirror hung upon the wall. A wash stand stood in the corner. It was quite sparse.

  “Margaret, I think we shall have to do better than this. Tomorrow, now that I control the purse strings, let us discuss how to refurbish the servants’ rooms.”

  Margaret’s mouth hung open, cod-like. “Is that what you’ve come to discuss, Your Grace? Surely that is a matter for the butler.”

  Eleanor sighed. “It is not why I’ve come.”

  “Did. . .” Margaret’s face paled. “His Grace hurt you? Are you—”

  “Oh, no,” she rushed, mortified that she could have given that impression. “His Grace is ensconced in my bed just now, in a pique.”

  “A pique?” Margaret echoed.

  “Yes.” She hesitated. How did she even begin? “I’ve upset him.”

  Margaret frowned. “How is that possible, Your Grace?”

  She gave a rueful smile. “I seem to be skilled at upsetting Anthony Burke, Duke of Ayr.”

  Margaret’s lips twitched. “Oh dear.”

  “May I sit?”

  Margaret scrambled to the chair and pulled it out.

  Though they had been quite close for years, it seemed Eleanor’s presence in her room was quite a shock.

  “Please, Your Grace,” Margaret said, gesturing to the simple seat.

  Forcing a smile, Eleanor sat on the hard, wooden surface. She looked down at her glass. “Very badly done of me, to not bring a glass for you.”

  Margaret’s eyes rounded into twin saucers. “It wouldna be proper, Your Grace.”

  “Our conversation will not be proper.”