When You Wish Upon a Duke

by Isabella Bradford

  He’d acted exactly like his father.

  Her tremulous smile was enough to break his heart.

  “I’m sorry, madam,” he said, pushing himself from the bed and away from her. He grabbed his shirt from the floor and pulled it over his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” she asked, stunned. “Whatever do you have to be sorry for?”

  He smiled bitterly. “You don’t even know, do you?”

  “No, I do not,” she said, clearly perplexed. She crawled to the edge of the bed to watch him gather the rest of his clothes in a bundle. “You make no sense at all, March.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, unwilling to say more. He’d already made enough of a shambles of this night without burdening her further, and all he could think of now was escape.

  “Is it something I’ve done?” she asked, her voice breaking. “Did I disappoint you?”

  He was appalled that she’d think such a thing.

  “You will never disappoint me,” he said at the door. “I only wish you could say the same of me.”

  Then he turned and fled.

  For a long moment, Charlotte stared at the closed door. What had happened? Where had things gone so terribly wrong?

  She grabbed one of the pillows, bunching it tightly into a ball in her arms to keep from crying. When Mama had explained the details of lovemaking to her, she’d thought it had sounded foolish and uncomfortable, and inelegant at best. Yet with March to guide her, she’d found joy and pleasure beyond description. He’d put aside his formal ducal self and revealed a wickedly ardent lover. She’d loved it, and she was sure now she was falling in love with him, too. Five minutes ago, she thought she’d been having the most perfect wedding night possible, with the most perfect of husbands.

  And now it seemed she hadn’t. She felt lost and hurt and abandoned and angry, and she couldn’t begin to figure out what had made him leave as he had. With only pops from the dying fire for comfort, she was chilled and sticky and sore and stretched, with all the glorious pleasure gone with him.

  She bowed her head and saw again the heavy new wedding ring on her finger. What did it signify now if her husband had no use for her? She wished she were once again with Mama and her sisters, and she wished she’d never heard of the Duke of Marchbourne, let alone married him. Finally she sobbed, unable to keep it back any longer, and punched the wadded pillow in her arms as hard as she could.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace,” Polly said, joining her from the dressing room. “But His Grace said you wished to undress for bed.”

  Charlotte’s head jerked up. Polly’s hands were clasped over the front of her apron and her expression was impassive, the way a good servant’s was supposed to be. But if Polly had been waiting all this time in Charlotte’s dressing room, as she’d been bidden to do, then she must have overheard everything that had transpired between her and March, from their first teasing encounter before the fire to the final humiliation of his departure.

  Charlotte blushed, mortified, and swiftly pulled her shift up over her breasts and down across her knees. What had seemed exciting before March was shameful before anyone else.

  Yet as her lady’s maid stood before her, waiting for her orders, Charlotte realized that she, too, stood at a crossroads. She could throw herself weeping into Polly’s arms and confess all of what had happened for the sake of the undeniable solace and commiseration one woman could give to another. Charlotte knew that, given her own age and inexperience, she was almost expected to make a confidante of her lady’s maid. She’d already begun to do so while Polly had tended her at Aunt Sophronia’s house, and she was sure Polly would be perfectly agreeable to continuing in that role now.

  But Charlotte wasn’t the same lady that she’d been even yesterday. Now she was Lady Charlotte FitzCharles, Duchess of Marchbourne, and her loyalty—as well as the rest of her—belonged to her husband. Confiding in Polly would be a betrayal of March, and no matter how much he tested her, she would not do that. Not to him, and not to herself, either.

  She tossed aside the pillow and slipped from the bed. “Thank you, Polly,” she said softly. “His Grace was correct. I am ready to undress for the night.”

  “Very well, ma’am.” Polly nodded and moved behind Charlotte to begin untying her stays. “I have taken the liberty of requesting water to be heated for a bath, ma’am. The footmen should be bringing it up from the kitchen shortly.”

  “Thank you, Polly,” Charlotte said gratefully. A hot bath was an unthinkable luxury—though not, it seemed, for a duchess. But a bath would help her to think and prepare for tomorrow. Tomorrow she would go to March and sort things out between them. Tomorrow she would make everything right.

  She would. For what other choice, really, did she have?

  “There you are, Your Grace.” Giroux, March’s French valet, wiped the last flecks of soap from March’s jaw and with a flourish held a small looking glass before him. “Ready for the new day.”

  “True enough, Giroux.” Critically March studied his reflection, running his hand across his smooth-shaven jaw. There were gloomy circles beneath his eyes, and he looked like he hadn’t slept. Which was to be expected, considering he hadn’t. “What better way to begin a day than with a sharp razor?”

  “Tout à fait vrai, sir,” the Frenchman said, busily packing away his razor. “Shaving is what separates man from the beasts.”

  “Indeed,” March said, turning to the coffee that the footman had just poured for him.

  If all it took was having his jaw scraped free of whiskers by his valet to transform a beast into a man, then he would take it. After his disastrous wedding night, anything that would make him feel civilized was more than welcome. During those long hours alone in his bed, he’d thought far too often of his father and his poor mother, too, dark memories he’d rather not have come creeping back to plague him.

  He wasn’t his father, and wouldn’t be. He was determined on that.

  God knows he was trying his best this morning. He’d purposely followed his customary routine of replying to letters and reading the newspapers over breakfast, followed by a visit from Giroux. Next he would change his banyan for his morning clothes, and his day would begin in earnest, as it usually did.

  Except that now his day must include his wife, a wife that he had treated most shamefully the night before. Inwardly he winced, remembering again how barbarously he had behaved toward her. He did not know whether she would forgive him or not, especially since he hadn’t begun to forgive himself.

  But they now were bound together as man and wife, and he and Charlotte would be expected to begin appearing as such today for the approval of the world, or at least their portion of London society. There were a great many people eager to make the acquaintance of his new duchess, especially since they’d wed in such haste. Fortunately, the king and the court were not at present in town, so Charlotte would be spared the ardors of a royal court presentation for another month or so.

  Small grace, that. March set down his coffee cup and glanced up from the newspaper at the footman.

  “Convey my morning regards to Her Grace,” he said, “and inform her that the carriage will be ready at eleven to begin our calls.”

  He’d already decided that the carriage would be an excellent place to apologize for all his shameful actions and to vow to begin their marriage afresh. It would also be his first opportunity to prove what he promised. He would sit across from her as a gentleman should, engaging in pleasant conversation for the duration of the trip. He would make no attempts to touch her or kiss her, and he would definitely not maul her as he had yesterday.

  Yet even before he’d completed that noble resolution, his lustful memory had overruled his conscience. What memories they were, too, of Charlotte sprawled wantonly before him, of her lovely, ripe breasts bared for him above those infernal scarlet stays, of how soft her skin had been beneath his hands and how warm her flesh had—

  “Thank you, no,” Charlotte said, suddenl
y not only in his thoughts but in his bedchamber, too. “I don’t believe I need to be announced to my own husband.”

  He turned abruptly and there she was, striding cheerfully through the door. Colorfully, too: she was wearing a dark pink dressing gown of rustling silk taffeta that billowed and fluttered out behind her. The gown was tied neatly at the waist with a green sash, but it didn’t begin to close the gown. Instead he had a tantalizing glimpse of her nightgown beneath, sheer white embroidered linen scarcely covering her breasts, the same round, full breasts that had filled his hands so perfectly.

  Struggling to compose himself, he looked down, only to see the shape of her splendidly long legs through the fluttering silk and linen. She wore green silk backless slippers with high curving heels that clicked across the floor and, worse (or better), gave her a gait that made her breasts and hips and everything else sway and tremble. It was damnably enticing, and he would have been content to watch her walking up and down this room the whole day long.

  Except he wouldn’t be content at all, not until he’d been able to wrap those long legs again around his waist and—

  “Good day, March,” she said. “Polly asked if I wished a tray with my breakfast, but I told her I preferred to take mine with you.”

  Belatedly he rose to his feet to greet her, his coffee cup in his hand.

  “Good day, madam,” he said. “I was not expecting you.”

  She stopped still. Her smile remained, but he didn’t miss the hurt flash quickly in her eyes, then disappear just as fast. “If you do not wish my company, why, then—”

  “No, no,” he said. “I did not expect you to be awake yet, that is all. I would be honored to have you join me. Please.”

  He looked sharply to the footmen, who hurried to bring a chair and another setting for her at his table.

  “You are certain?” she asked.

  “Of course,” he said. “Please join me.”

  He sensed her relief, and hated himself all the more for having made her doubt at all. With a flurry of silk, she sat across from him. Morning sun spilled around her, turning her skin to golden ivory. If she hadn’t slept, either, then it didn’t show on her. Her hair looked as if she’d done it herself, a charmingly haphazard knot pinned at the top of her head. He liked it, until he realized that he liked it because it reminded him of how her hair had come down last night.

  “I fear you will always see me at this hour,” she said, smoothing her skirts. “I’m not a layabout kind of London lady. I’ll still keep country hours, and rise with the sun.”

  “That is an admirable trait.” He wished she hadn’t called herself a layabout. He really wished she hadn’t. “I generally prefer country hours myself.”

  “Ah, then you are a farmer at heart,” she said lightly, pouring herself tea from the pot that a footman had brought. “Retiring to your own bed when the sun sets must agree with you. Do you read the newspapers like this every morning?”

  “I do.” So she was unhappy with him for leaving her bedchamber last night. Her reference to farmers was oblique, but he’d understood her meaning well enough. At least she’d the sense not to make a fuss before the servants.

  He refolded the paper and set it aside, determined to show that she would have his attention now.

  “I have many interests and responsibilities,” he explained, “with many people in my employ depending upon me for their sustenance. I regard it as my duty to be informed in the events of the day.”

  “Goodness.” Delicately she sipped her tea, looking up at him over the edge of the cup in exactly the way she’d looked at him over her wineglass last night. “With your many responsibilities, I vow I must be grateful for whatever morsel of your attention I receive.”

  He grunted and frowned. It would seem that his apology to her needed to take place now, rather than later in the carriage. So be it; he’d rehearsed the words often enough as he’d lain sleepless in his own bed last night.

  He motioned for the servants to leave them. As soon as they were alone, he stood and clasped his hands firmly behind his back. It was not so much that he wanted to loom over her—which, as a tall man, he couldn’t help but do—but he always found it easier to speak of serious matters while standing.

  Not that Charlotte understood.

  “You don’t have to stand in my presence, Marchbourne,” she said warily, looking up at him. “I’m your wife, not a judge.”

  He took a deep breath. This was not going to be easy.

  “Charlotte,” he began. “Charlotte, there are certain things that I must say to you.”

  For the first time she said nothing, waiting in silence for him to continue.

  “Charlotte, my dear,” he started again. “My wife. I must apologize to you for last night.”

  She ducked her chin low. “For leaving me as you did?”

  “For what I did before that,” he said quickly, not wishing her to misconstrue. “I failed to treat you with the respect that you deserve, and for that I can never forgive myself.”

  She blushed, bewildered. “But there is nothing to forgive, is there? What you did—what we did—that is what husbands and wives are meant to do, isn’t it?”

  The devil take him, he was blushing now, too. “The act, yes, of course. But the manner in which I, ah, engaged, was not as befits you as my wife.”

  “No?” She seemed to be shrinking into herself. “I did not please you, March?”

  “That is not the issue, Charlotte,” he said. “The transgression was mine, not yours. You were entirely innocent, and I was in the wrong. But I give you my word of honor that it will never happen in that way again. When I come to you again in your bed, I vow to be the husband you and our children deserve, and address you only with the greatest respect.”

  There, he thought with relief, that was it, every word of the speech he’d so carefully planned. He smiled warmly. He expected she would thank him for his apology, or at least be grateful that there would be no recurrence of their barbaric wedding night fiasco.

  She did neither. “Is that truly what you wish, March?” she asked, her voice pitifully small. “Because if it is, why, then I will agree.”

  “It is, Charlotte,” he said firmly. “As your husband, you must trust me to know what will be best for us both.”

  She stared down into her cup, tracing her fingertip around and around the porcelain edge.

  “I will trust you,” she said finally. “Because you ask it, I will trust you. But it always returns to that, doesn’t it? It’s always a matter of trust.”

  She pushed back her empty cup and rose, drawing her dressing gown more tightly about her as if she were chilled. “Is that all, March? I should begin to dress if you wish to leave at eleven.”

  “That is all, that is all,” he said heartily. “And I’ll be proud of you whatever you wear.”

  “You are … kind,” she said softly, then slipped around him to leave.

  As she passed, her skirts brushed against his foot, and he nearly caught her arm to stop her long enough for a kiss. He wouldn’t deny that he wanted to, nor did he doubt that she’d kiss him in return. But at the last moment he stopped himself, and wisely, too. How much would his word of honor as a gentleman mean if she couldn’t walk through a room without him kissing her?

  Instead he watched her go, the soles of her high-heeled slippers slapping gently at her bare feet as her dressing gown flicked through the doorway.

  He told himself he should feel virtuous and noble. In truth he felt neither.

  It was always a matter of trust.

  Although the rules for new brides of a certain rank were not written down or published, they were as clear as any other law of the land to those forced to obey them. Both Aunt Sophronia and Mama had explained these rules to Charlotte, and even a male like March seemed completely familiar with their intricacies.

  As the newly minted Duchess of Marchbourne, Charlotte was expected to call upon every other important lady in London society, over two hu
ndred in all. The calls themselves were not of importance. A quarter hour in each drawing room and a swallow of tea accompanied by the most general conversation would do. What mattered was that Charlotte present herself in her new role, and with her presence grace those drawing rooms.

  If the Dowager Duchess of Marchbourne still lived, then she would have accompanied Charlotte, easing her way and making the proper introductions. A FitzCharles sister or sister-in-law could have performed the same role. But since March had no female relations, he offered himself as Charlotte’s companion for the first few days, until she learned how the calls should be done. While this was an unusual gesture for a husband, one sure to be much remarked and whispered about, no one dared say anything to his face. He was, after all, the Duke of Marchbourne, and entitled to do as he pleased.

  On that first day, Charlotte was grateful to have him with her, too. She did not enjoy the calls. The other ladies were all at least as old as her mother, and most were of an age to match Aunt Sophronia, and equally intimidating. The conversations were almost exactly the same. The state of the weather was followed by polite queries about the wedding and congratulations on the good fortune of the match. They recalled her parents and his in the most general way. They admired her ring and clothes, and purred and praised her to March as if she were some costly, precious new acquisition.

  Finally there was the inevitable, excruciating subject of an heir. The appraisals of Charlotte’s form for child-bearing (“Forgive me for remarking it, Your Grace, but you do appear a slender lady for producing sons.”), the comments about her breeding pedigree (“Your mother had only daughters, did she not? Pity.”), and the predictions of pregnancies (“I vow, Your Grace, that you will be brought to bed nine months from this day.”) pretended to be good-humored. But to Charlotte the comments were all not-so-subtle reminders of why she and March had married in the first place. She found them mortifying, and she was sure that March must feel the same.