He was particularly vexed, though, when he came upon an account of the recent party he and Ravenna had attended. One eyewitness to the event asserted that Simon stood over seven feet tall (absurd) and rarely smiled (almost true), even at the Welsh beauty he had stolen from another man’s arms.
He shook his head at the unflattering description. There was no mention of her previous suitor’s location. Presumably Grayson had bought the rag-and-bone man’s silence and pacified the prime minister’s wife.
To Simon’s chagrin he came upon several references to his four mistresses, who professed to be infuriated over his clandestine pursuit of Lady R. One of these women planned to sue him, although for what damages the journalist did not specify.
As these mistresses existed only in sensationalist fiction, Simon saw no need to seek legal advice on his own behalf.
The real problem was that Ravenna was likely reading the same papers. She might not know it was all bollocks. Perhaps a visit to his jeweler might be in order to reassure her of his devotion. He thought a sapphire bracelet might match the deep hue of her eyes, a shackle of the costliest sort. Or would such a gift imply guilt?
He bought the bracelet and put it aside for a suitable moment. Sapphires might be useful to soothe her when he confessed he had loved her for years.
Ravenna had glanced through the papers. She was honestly too caught up in her wedding preparations to care if Simon appeared to have grown to gigantic proportions. Even the matter of his fictitious mistresses could be dealt with at a later time. A new wedding gown had been designed for her by the magic of Jane’s modistes. The heart-shaped bodice of almond tissue crisscrossed her breasts over a pearl satin fichu. The slender-line skirt spilled to the hem in rows of intricate Belgian lace. Better still, the gown bore no trace of David’s influence.
The creation was almost finished by the time Grayson’s moratorium on social activities came to an end. Simon resumed escorting her to those places in London she had longed to visit. They spent one morning at a water party on the Thames. He casually pointed out one of the mansions he owned as the regatta sailed past the riverfront property.
“It isn’t yours,” she said, hanging over the railing for a receding look at the magnificent home.
“It is,” he said with a modest smile and drew her firmly back onto the deck. “It’s leased or I would take you there. Don’t lean over like that. You’re giving me heart patters of an unpleasant sort.”
“To think I schemed for freedom only to walk into such a handsome trap.”
The wind ruffled the water and blew across the deck. His dark eyes danced. He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “Let the trap be fashioned of silk bindings and not claws of steel.”
She stilled. His words provoked her growing thirst for the intimacy he promised. His knuckles traced the contour of her jaw. “Silk or steel? What is the difference when one is a captive?”
“There are degrees of pleasure that border on discomfort, according to one’s preference.”
“Then you are decadent.”
He pulled her against his chest as a plume of spray doused the deck. “That depends.”
The water cooled her warm cheeks. “On?”
His smoky voice caressed her. “You. On what you enjoy.”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“I have a few ideas. I’ll indulge whatever whims you entertain.” He guided her back down into a cabin crowded with their friends. At once she was assaulted by a riff of low relaxed laughter and the scent of champagne in the warm air. “As I trust you will agree to mine,” he added softly in her ear. “It’s what a wife should expect of a decent husband. Be careful when you take the last step. It’s easy to slip.”
A decent husband, she thought with a pang of longing. As if his touch did not weaken her bones. But he had behaved like a gentleman during their rushed courtship, demonstrating so much restraint that she wondered if she was more desirous of their bridal bed than Simon was. Jane had been privately advising her now and then as to what to expect on her wedding night. Ravenna sensed that nothing could prepare her for the intensity of surrendering to Simon.
Of course she was right.
18
It sprinkled on the day of the ceremony, and yet the droplets of rain might have been miniature diamonds. A Biblical deluge could not have discouraged those Londoners hopeful for a view of the wedding party to stay home. The magic of romance glistened over the ancient city.
Enterprising street waifs had held places since before sunrise in Hyde Park for a coveted glimpse of the bride as she was borne through the streets; she had been spirited from Heath’s townhouse in misty grandeur to Grayson’s mansion in his coach-and-six. For a shilling a spectator could watch the procession of elegant carriages converge on Park Lane.
The marriage rites unfolded without incident in the privacy of Grayson’s chapel.
Ravenna could not have asked for a more attentive husband. He remained at her side throughout the wedding reception. He raised his guard whenever a man outside the family approached her. The birthmark on his freshly shaven face made him look especially fierce today; his finely tailored clothes showed him at his devastating best.
His stare could cut a man dead. Or reduce a woman to flustered confusion. How could she appreciate the wedding breakfast when her mind kept wandering to what the night would bring?
The thought of his large hands on her body, of belonging to him, enthralled her. Her heart beat wildly under her bodice. She knew him and she didn’t. She sketched her fingers down the stem of her champagne glass in contemplation. Her mind was a jumble of hopes, memories, and warnings.
He is a splendid lover.
His desires are indecent.
Hide me, Simon! Now there was no one to hide her. And the realization made her shamefully happy. She wished she understood how he felt about her. She wished she had not spent her life in a remote castle.
The weight of his hand on hers drew her from her musings. “Ravenna,” he said, tilting up her glass. “I hesitate to spoil the moment, but you’re spilling your champagne on the buttered crabs.”
“Good heavens.” She blinked in horror as she looked down at her plate of soggy crustaceans. “How off-putting.”
“It’s fine. No one else noticed. If this celebration vexes you overmuch, we can contrive an early escape. I shall invent a reason.”
“We shouldn’t.” She looked across the table, tempted to take him up on his offer. Clearly neither she nor Simon were displaying the gratitude owed their hosts. “Answer me one question, Simon,” she said in a quiet voice.
“If I can.”
“What is the antidote to your charm?”
His eyes lit up in surprise. “Have I charmed you?”
“Like a wizard.” She vented a sigh. “I am stupidly spellbound.”
He smiled modestly. “I’m not a chemist, but it’s my understanding that one must be slowly introduced to a substance in order to develop any sort of immunity against it. You should have cultivated a tolerance to me by now.”
“Are you immune to me?” she asked thoughtfully.
“Good God, no.”
“We had a hurried wedding and no virtual courtship. Jane and I talked for hours last night. She said it is natural that I feel nervous.”
“Do years of friendship not count?”
“Not in my favor,” she said candidly. “If anything I feel more susceptible to you than I would to a stranger.”
“We won’t be strangers in a few hours,” he said, as if that fact had not consumed her mind the entire day. “I would hope that whatever gaps remain between us shall soon be filled.”
Simon was content to leave the conversation at that. She was his wife, even though the shadow of his guilty secret stood between them. He stared past her to the attendants who stood against the wall. Years of waiting, of wanting. Could he wait a little longer? Could he hold back until she wanted him? Was he a devil for taking advantage of a crisis to win her?
Probably. But he would serve as her devil for the remainder of their days, if she so allowed. At minimum he’d make a better husband than the vulgarian she’d almost married. She would be well-loved on her wedding night by a man who would never dream of betraying her.
Was his silence a form of betrayal?
He doubted she understood the depth of his feelings for her. Nor did Rhys, who took him aside during a champagne toast, to mutter, “For God’s sake, Simon, you look positively menacing. At least act as if you are in love with her. You are about to embark on your wedding night, not a cart-ride to the gallows.”
Act as if he loved her?
Simon had spent years hiding that truth from the world. It was a miracle he had lasted through the ceremony. He didn’t need a reminder of what the night promised. Ravenna in his arms, his bed. His lover and confidante. His to please. Discovering the vulnerable places of her body no one had ever touched. Soon he would be inside her.
He would manage without any guidance. A man needed no script to do what came as second nature. And he had never professed to be anything but the flawed and prideful person that Society took him to be. He was a duke and until today his personal desires had been no one else’s business. Soon he would share his deepest self with his wife.
He shook his head, unsure as to how he could explain this to her brother. Or that he should. “You know that I care about her.”
“Yes. Show her. Tell her.”
“I will.”
“I draw the line at giving advice on how to seduce my sister. Just -- try not to scowl all the time. It’s an effective look to stop an opponent in his tracks, but I can’t imagine it would encourage one’s bride.”
“Encourage her to do what?” Simon inquired, enjoying the chance to turn the tables on the scamp.
“How dare you ask me such an impudent question?” Rhys said, not quite managing to look offended.
“She’ll be in good hands. I will hover over her like a hawk.”
“That is not a comforting image,” Rhys said. “I picture you swooping down from the sky to capture a small raven in your claws.”
Simon fought the urge to laugh. “I plan to romance my duchess, Rhys, not chase her about our bedchamber like a bird of prey.” Unless, he added silently, she wanted him to chase her. He would not rule out anything when it came to pleasing Ravenna. “Do not fret about us tonight,” he added. “I assure you that neither of us will be thinking of you.”
The wedding reception was about to become a deception.
It was a ruse that Heath had suggested. The senior footman ushered the newlyweds from the receiving room to an antechamber off the chapel. There husband and wife changed from their formal clothing into modest apparel. Ravenna was only momentarily disappointed that she would not wear her costly new gown. Her family had no qualms about abetting this bid for secrecy. The Boscastles rarely withheld their backing from a passionate cause once a commitment had been made.
Covert measures were a necessary precaution against any malefactors who might hope to take advantage of the bridal couple’s distraction. It was an ideal time for an enemy to appear. Not to mention people inclined to prying.
A shabby service coach conveyed the duke and his wife at a lumbering pace toward Simon’s North Audley Street residence. The driver turned onto Curzon Street and meandered a while before he changed course to Grosvenor Square. This circuitous flight succeeded with nary a soul outside the family circle aware that Simon and his bride had tricked Society.
“Usually, it’s a short drive from Park Lane,” Simon assured Ravenna over the creaking of the undercarriage. “In fact, we’d have been quicker walking, although not safer.”
The champagne bottle that Jane had gifted them nearly flew out of his hand as the wheels encountered a giant pothole. He threw out his other hand to save Ravenna from a spill. “Well, perhaps not. We could still end up walking if we lose a wheel. This isn’t how I pictured bringing you home.”
She clung to the strap, her curvaceous form pleasantly crushed to his. “It’s rather fun.”
Simon had an altogether different idea of fun, but he wasn’t about to darken the mood. “You deserve a fairy-tale coach.”
She subsided against his shoulder. “You’ll bring out Grayson’s competitive spirit. He used to be quite the whip, racing about London in his phaeton when he was younger. Now he has his hands full with family affairs.”
“I trust you won’t cause him further worry.”
“Do you find me worrisome?”
His broad jaw brushed her cheek. “I do, indeed. It’s a responsibility I welcome with my entire heart.”
“I shall strive to contain myself,” she said insincerely, her breasts pressing against his waistcoat.
“But perhaps not when we’re alone like this.”
“I saw Rhys whisper to you at the wedding,” she said, angling her shoulder so that they fitted together like two halves of a heart locket. “Was it important?”
“Yes. He is afraid to relinquish you to the aloof duke. Am I ferocious-looking?”
“Sometimes. But that’s the least of our concerns, isn’t it?”
He restrained the urge to ply her with kisses and champagne. The coach had turned a familiar corner. She tilted from his reach. “We’re home,” he said in relief. “I don’t think we were followed.”
“As if we were spies, Simon,” she mused, peering out the window. “All this secrecy. There isn’t a single light in the house anywhere that I can see. Is such subterfuge necessary?”
“It’s necessary if we are to have an uninterrupted honeymoon,” he said.
“But for our protection?”
“Let’s hope we don’t find out. I’d rather be prepared than not.”
A rumor had been passed through London that the duke would spirit his bride away under cover of darkness to his villa for their honeymoon. A few diehard romantics took up a street vigil after the wedding reception to observe this event. It was worth another wait in the drippy mist to be part of a once-in-a-lifetime moment. Especially since it was supposed to be a secret.
The faithful received their reward. Later that evening the ducal carriage departed the marquess’s Park Lane mansion in a rumble of refined elegance. The vehicle’s glass lights blazed like the eyes of a mythical creature. The driver and footmen sported satin knee-breeches and an attitude of aristocratic insolence that impressed even the cynical city watchmen.
“The duchess waved at me,” a delighted lady of the night said from the gaslit corner where she and six other Cyprians had congregated with their bored escorts. “She was wearing diamond rings on her gloves. I’ve never seen sparklers that size. Like eggs.”
“The duke smiled at me,” one of her associates said with a sigh. “I’ve never seen a man as lovely in my life.”
It would have crushed these smitten followers had the true identities of the man and woman inside the elegant carriage been revealed. The fact that the decoy couple maintained their gravity until reaching their destination astonished them as much as it did their audience.
Isolde and Timpkins’s performance as the duke and his bride was so convincing, in fact, that on their arrival at Caverley House hours later, the staff fondly dubbed them the true master and mistress of the estate. The butler even joked that if the pair sneaked upstairs to enact the nuptials, no one would utter a word of accusation against them.
The merry reception so pleased Timpkins that he took it upon himself to ask a kiss of his leading lady as she returned to the carriage for the reticule she’d forgotten.
Isolde straightened and immediately put the steward in his place. “If you ask for a kiss, you ask for my hand. If you’re asking for my hand, I refuse -- unless you provide documentation of your financial stability and written proof of your intentions. I am no doxy. Furthermore, I don’t love you in the least. We don’t know each other well enough to kiss.”
“But I am employed by the duke.”
“And I by the
duchess. I have set my standards high.”
He reared back as she set off across the drive, a shimmer of slender dignity in her mistress’s wedding gown. His pride was dented, but not destroyed. “Don’t put that dress where you can’t find it, love,” he said, striding after her. “You might want to wear it when we marry.”
She smiled all the way back to the house. “I’ll be laid to rest before I wear this to our wedding. Do not let today’s illusion cloud your thoughts. We are in this position because someone wanted the duke to die. If you showed a little more sense, I might show you my interest. You might pay closer attention to our surroundings than to my gown.”
“You’re right, of course.” Although in his view, it was possible to do both. Not only did he strive to emulate his master in appearance, but also in the unconquerable strength of his character. Timpkins had sensed for years that his master loved his new duchess. Still, the duke had waited and then, at the perfect moment, pounced. Well, pounce was an undignified word but his grace had certainly taken advantage of timing.
Isolde could laugh all she liked, but Timpkins was heartened by the knowledge that they would live and conspire under the same roof for many years to come.
He had time to improve his manners and his wardrobe and prove to her that he was erudite and well-read, despite his rough veneer. He would impress her with his dedication to the duke. And he would follow his master’s example and build a friendship with Isolde instead of mere physical longing as a foundation for romance.
19
The stucco house on North Audley Street had been built a century ago. It consisted of two properties merged into one fashionable residence in the Greek-Revival style. The duke’s London staff occupied the basement. A carriage house adjoined a large stables. Hazy moonlight glinted off an iron balcony and the white Portland stone portico of the façade.
The Duke of a Thousand Desires Page 11
