Tamed By The Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Scarlett Osborne

  Gresham Manor, just like Gresham House in London, had become a prison to Christopher. Even as a child, he had never been happy in either home, but at least they were his homes. Now, he felt he no longer even belonged there.

  After their lavish Society wedding, the Marquess of Clydekill and the new Lady Clydekill—formerly Miss Dorothy Coleman, the wealthy heiress to half of Cornwall’s mining business—had remained all winter and spring at Gresham House.

  Lady Clydekill reveled in the aristocratic rank her doting father had just purchased her. She spent her father’s money profligately. Gresham House was lavishly refurnished with all the gaudiness new money could manage. Lady Clydekill sent to Paris for her gowns and to Russia for her jewels, and she managed to look as gaudy as her London mansion.

  It seemed as if they entertained continuously. Lady Clydekill obviously craved attention, and there was always a certain element of Society that could be counted on to attend any excessively splendid event she hosted.

  Christopher knew the guests did not come for love of his wife’s company, but to gossip later about her pitiful attempts at grandeur. Generally, the haut ton appeared to be of the opinion that she tried too hard—a mistake sadly typical of the ill-bred nouveaux riches.

  In those early months after the young couple’s marriage, the old Duke of Gresham was rarely to be seen at Gresham House. His pockets full of his new daughter-in-law’s gold, he tended to stay most nights at his gentlemen’s club, wining, dining, gambling, and wenching.

  It was with some horror, then, that one evening about five months after his own wedding, the Marquess of Clydekill received an urgent message from Mrs. Hartnell at the Empire. The message was entrusted confidentially to the care of a footman of the utmost discretion.

  The Duke was dead. The old man had had a fatal apoplectic attack while in the arms of Minette, his favorite prostitute. To avoid scandal, Mrs. Hartnell urged Lord Clydekill to come himself, immediately, to take charge of the situation.

  The Duke’s remains would need to be removed from the Empire as quickly as possible, so some sort of cover story could be concocted to satisfy the proprieties.

  Mrs. Hartnell had an Anglican archbishop among her clientele. Perhaps, for a price, reports of the Duke’s passing could be arranged to suggest he had been taken suddenly while in a nearby church, lingering there alone in silent prayer after evening Vespers?

  In any case, the new young Duke’s presence was needed immediately. Time was not one’s friend when a potential scandal was brewing.

  Years later, Christopher was to reflect that if he—who had always been a dutiful son—could have found it in his heart to be dutiful just one more time, his problems would have been solved.

  For had he visited the Empire to take charge of his father’s remains, he would inevitably have encountered Rosie. And she would have told him of Joanna’s whereabouts.

  As it was, Christopher’s heart was hardened against his father, who had sold him to the Colemans for a good price, like a prize bull. He did not go to the Empire. He put the matter in the hands of Haddam, the family butler, who could be trusted to keep his mouth shut out of loyalty to the Gresham name.

  The result was that by summer, when the former Lady Clydekill accompanied her husband to Gresham Manor for the first time, she went as the new Duchess of Gresham. She insisted that her doting father, Mr. Coleman, should come along.

  “Because family is everything, of course,” she told her husband the Duke. What could he possibly say to that?

  * * *

  People who lived at Gresham Manor had roles assigned to them by centuries of tradition.

  Unlike Gresham House in London, the main purpose of which was to entertain and socialize with one’s noble peers, Gresham Manor was the hub of a thriving feudal system that had existed for as long as England had.

  The Duke and Duchess might host the occasional lavish hunt ball or delightful country weekend for other aristocrats. But as the new Duke of Gresham saw it, his and his wife’s primary role in the community was far different from that.

  By feudal tradition, their noble titles connected them to the land and its people by ties at least as strong as the obligations held by their many hundreds of workers, tenants, and dependents.

  This tradition, at its best, required the Duke and Duchess to serve the community in exchange for the power and wealth the community provided them. Christopher believed it to be a sacred contract.

  A good Duke, in Christopher’s opinion, should know the names and personal situations of all his workers. When one of them married or had a child, the Duke or Duchess must be on the scene—or at least must send prompt congratulations and offers of assistance.

  When one of them became too sick or old to work, a caring lord or lady would have seen this eventuality coming, and would have arranged with the estate manager to have a cottage and some sort of subsistence available.

  A good Duke would stay informed about all his lands—which ones yielded good crops, which needed to lay fallow for a season or two. He should know what rents a good crop justified, and be prepared to collect less from tenant farmers if the harvest were poor.

  He should know the condition of the four-legged inhabitants of his stables and fields—if a mare was having difficulty birthing her foal, or a hunting dog her pups, the lord should be prepared to stay up playing midwife, with his fine silk shirt rolled up to the elbows if necessary.

  A Duchess, too, had important duties. Not just the stewardship of all the venerable art and antiquities on display in the ducal palace lay under her care. Christopher believed the physical and spiritual health of his retainers were also the Duchess’s responsibility, like a chatelaine of old.

  She should be busy every day, making rounds to aid the sick and the bereaved. She should be the local vicar’s right hand, ensuring by her good works that all her dependents received the solace of the Church.

  That’s how lords and ladies of old kept the feudal bargain. That’s why common men would leave their families and fields to fight to the death for their lords. It was a mutual pact.

  Christopher tried to explain this to his wife. Just as his dead father, the late Duke, would have done, she laughed in his face.

  “You’re a fool, Christopher. And an embarrassment to me in front of the other nobles, with your queer, old-fashioned notions. I don’t know why I married you.”

  You married me out of greed. You married me so you could swan around with the same proud title eight hundred years of my noble female ancestors have carried. And you’re no better suited to that title than I would be to the title of pickpocket or thief.

  Not for the first time, it occurred to him that Joanna, in spite of her gypsy blood, would have served admirably as a Duchess. She would have cared little for fancy gowns and jewels, letting her natural beauty speak for itself.

  From her own people, Joanna understood the ties of community. Strange as it sounded, he could easily imagine her visiting the estate’s old folk and young mothers, listening to their worries and cheering them with her sunny disposition. “Sure, the Duchess’s heart is as sweet as her face,” the pensioners would say.

  They don’t say that about this Duchess.

  * * *

  For her part, the Duchess was bored sick at Gresham Manor. The place made her think of peasants, and barnyards, and other distasteful, malodorous things.

  She wanted to be in London, cutting a fine figure. If the London Season was over, she wanted to travel abroad. She did not care to hear there was a war going on, and that English nobles were hardly popular in Napoleon’s territories.

  What matter? Surely there were some places still full of luxury—St. Petersburg or Madrid, for example—where the wealthy continentals were enjoying their riches.

  It was useless to remind her that they couldn’t spend all their time in London and abroad—that Gresham Manor and the Dukedom needed continual attention and care.

  “That’s the sort of thing you pay other people
to handle for you,” she instructed Christopher. “Don’t you have any sense of what’s required of you, if you want to keep up your image?”

  He’s beyond belief. If I let him, he’d be wandering around the estate in old threadbare breeches left to him by his great-grandfather, and he’d be carrying a pitchfork and helping the peasants bring in the hay.

  * * *

  In sharp contrast to his daughter, Mr. Coleman reveled in his new life among the nobility. In truth, he considered this his Dukedom, bought and paid for.

  Mr. Coleman greatly enjoyed making rounds among the tenants and laborers, giving orders. He liked it when they doffed their caps and tugged their forelocks in his presence. Some would mistakenly call him “My Lord,” and he never once corrected them. He thought it quite fitting, in fact.

  He liked the deferential attitudes of the peasants to him. Mr. Coleman had spent his life employing miners, whose work was more valuable than that of these old hayseeds. But British working men tended to have a prickly, independent attitude toward their bosses, and they wouldn’t willingly show employers any more respect than they had to.

  Truly, the life of a country gentleman had its advantages over the world of commerce.

  Only one dark cloud threatened Mr. Coleman’s otherwise sunny horizon.

  Three years had past, and his daughter still showed no signs of pregnancy. In fact, he learned from the housemaids—whom he secretly bribed for information—that the young couple never even crossed the thresholds of each other’s rooms any more.

  Mr. Coleman did not care whether the marriage was satisfactory as to matters of the flesh. His son-in-law was an idiot. The less time his precious daughter had to spend in that fool’s company, the better.

  The Duke was only needed for two purposes; to provide the Colemans, father and daughter, with a ducal title and ancient coat of arms. And to father a son, a Coleman grandson, who would inherit everything.

  This was critical. Like many of the great families of England, the hereditary titles, estates, and assets of the Dukedom could only pass to a male heir, and only as an unbroken whole. The entire estate was entailed.

  Oh, a widow wouldn’t be left entirely bereft. By law, she could claim certain dower rights, which would ensure she had a small income and a place to live for her lifetime. But neither she, nor any daughters or younger sons, could claim much more than that.

  And under the marriage settlement, his daughter’s dowry, and all her rights to inherit his, Mr. Coleman’s, vast fortune, had become part of the entailed ducal estate when she became Duchess of Gresham.

  It was enough to bring a man to tears. What an enormous price for him to have had to pay for a title for his daughter. No wonder the aristocracy accumulated more of England’s wealth with each passing generation.

  For a moment, Mr. Coleman found himself sympathizing with the French and their guillotines.

  I earned my money, by God! No one just handed it all to me, like this bloody young Duke!

  Although in truth, the first Frederick Coleman had indeed just handed all his wealth to his son. But why quibble over details—the point was still a valid one.

  Mr. Coleman privately consulted some of the best lawyers in the City of London about the possibility of breaking the entail. All the great legal minds gave him the same answer: it couldn’t be done. Not at any price.

  The only hope was for the Duchess to bear a son. The Duke of Gresham could live or die, then, as he pleased. Father and daughter would continue to control the money, acting on the child’s behalf.

  So why is my daughter still not in the family way?

  Mr. Coleman first spoke to his daughter, explaining the urgency of the problem. With every passing year, the Duchess was getting no younger. She had better get to work.

  The Duchess wept and sobbed and claimed she was sorely neglected. Surely no other wife could put as much effort as she did into keeping young and beautiful for her husband’s sake.

  No other woman in Society would put up with half of what she did—remaining hidden away in this moldy old manor house to please her husband, instead of enjoying their wealth—her father’s wealth, to be honest! —amid the bright lights of London.

  Once Mr. Coleman had convinced himself that his daughter was a martyr to her husband’s selfishness, the two set off together to confront the Duke.

  * * *

  They caught him in the estate office, going over some tedious rent rolls with Brown, who was still estate manager.

  Brown bowed and murmured something obsequious to all three of them, particularly to Mr. Coleman, from whom it was well known that all the money came. He slipped away to give the gentry their privacy.

  Brown’s obvious disloyalty to the Gresham family did not escape the Duke’s notice, but he made no comment.

  “See here,” said Mr. Coleman. “I think it’s time we three had a talk about your treatment of my lovely daughter. You were a lucky man the day you married her, and I’ll see you give her the respect and attention she’s due.”

  Christopher retreated behind shallow but impenetrable courtesy.

  “Certainly, sir. But my conscience is clear. I believe I do show Her Grace every consideration she’s due.”

  Chew on that riddle, sir, and see if you can figure out what I really mean.

  “The girl cries into her pillow every night. She cries to find herself ignored by a husband who should be kissing the ground she walks on.”

  Christopher rather doubted that. The only times I’ve seen that hard-hearted woman cry have been when she couldn’t get her way by other means.

  “I do not ignore my wife, sir. I do my duty by her, and I give her everything she wants or needs.”

  “Really? Is that so? Then tell me, Your Grace—” He paused to let the sarcasm of the title sink in, “Tell me why, after three years as a devoted helpmeet to you, my daughter has no child? Tell me why she spends all her nights alone, while you are out carousing with the hired hands in the barns and stables?”

  Mr. Coleman stopped to catch his breath. A portly man, he got winded easily.

  “I heard rumors about you before the wedding, that you weren’t capable as a man. Why, Lady Jersey herself whispered to other women that, when put to the task, you could do absolutely nothing for her in the bedroom. I put those rumors aside as filthy gossip, Your Grace. But perhaps I should not have. You will begin to visit my daughter every night, sir, until you get a male heir on her. Or otherwise I will start legal proceedings to have the marriage annulled for non-consummation. My daughter will have the sympathy of the entire ton, Your Grace. And your reputation as a man will be dragged in the mud, believe me.”

  Christopher was white-faced with anger. To think that a gentleman would speak of such things openly, and in the presence of his own daughter! These people are no better than trash.

  “I assure you, sir, the marriage was consummated, as any physician will be able to testify.” And an unpleasant night’s work it was, too.

  “Perhaps, if fertility is the issue, your money would be better spent on doctors for your daughter, rather than on lawyers for me.”

  Christopher turned on his heel and left the estate office. He was angrier than he had ever been before.

  But he had to concede that he would now have to start visiting his wife in her chamber at night. It was his obligation to the Dukedom. The very thought nauseated him, though.

  I’ll never forget the first time I had to do my duty by my so-called wife.

  It had been on their wedding night, of course. Christopher had been dreading this event. He kept trying to think of ways out of the obligation.

  Perhaps, if he fobbed Her Grace off with a few kisses and caresses before they fell asleep, she would be too innocent to know the difference? She was motherless, after all—she would have had no more experienced woman to turn to for advice.

  Such innocence was not uncommon among gently bred young ladies. But no, the Duchess would not be fooled. Christopher had no doubt of her
virginity—her coldness and indifference would unman any suitor—but something told him that the Duchess was the sort who would know and insist upon everything she had bargained for.

  Perhaps he could tell the Duchess he had an illness making consummation of their union impossible? No—his own father would deny it, and Mr. Coleman would no doubt ask for a doctor’s verification of the handicap.

  There was nothing for it, then, but to go through with the act.

  When Her Grace lady’s maid had ushered him into his wife’s hushed chambers, he could barely see her in the dark. Good. That would make it easier.

  He sensed, but could not clearly see, Her Grace lying ramrod stiff in bed, swathed in some silken night garment. He removed his own night robe and joined her in the bed. She did not move.

  Perhaps she was frightened, for all her haughty bravado? This thought caused him a moment of sympathy for her. He did not want anyone to be frightened of him. So as he untied the ribbons of her robe, he tried kindness.

  “My dear? I know we don’t know each other well yet, but I will try to be as gentle as I can.”

  She hissed at him in the darkness, “Just get it over with.”

  He almost cried out in sheer frustration at that. Joanna, Joanna, where are you? I do not want to do this with any woman but you.

  Keeping his eyes squeezed shut, he thought of Joanna the entire time. Every intimate part of this icy woman that he touched, he could imagine belonged to Joanna, if he just kept his eyes closed and his focus on his heated memories rather than the present.

  So long as he did not look, the skin of neck and shoulders, sweet to his lips, were Joanna’s. The rounded young breasts, the pert nipples that seemed to respond to his fingers and his tongue, were Joanna’s. The softly rounded hips and thighs that he pushed apart were Joanna’s.

  And when he climbed atop the inert form beneath him and thrust himself into his wife, over and over again, he imagined it was Joanna, rising up to meet each thrust and to draw him deeper into her womanhood.