Too Wilde to Wed

by Eloisa James

  “DeeDee pulled and pulled, ’cause Mrs. Fitzy is a bad bird,” Artie said, around her thumb.

  North brushed a finger across the part of Diana’s palm that wasn’t rubbed raw from rope, and then curled her hand shut. “Right. Upstairs, all of you.”

  Diana pulled her hand away. “Godfrey!”

  North followed her gaze and saw the child curled on the marble bench where footmen usually sat. It was hardly comfortable, but he seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

  Diana sighed and bent over him. “Godfrey, I need you to wake up.”

  North brushed her gently to the side and picked the child up. Godfrey smelled like dirt and sweaty little boy, an odor North remembered in his bones.

  “We wanted to ride,” Artie told Prism, “but DeeDee said no, ’cause Mrs. Fitzy is a bad bird.”

  Prism led the way upstairs, murmuring quietly to Artie, which brought to North’s mind a sudden memory of Prism—considerably younger and somewhat slimmer—talking to Horatius.

  Horatius had adored the butler, and had often sat for hours in the butler’s pantry while Prism polished silver. In the white heat of grief, North had never thought about how much the loss of Horatius must have affected their butler. Every person in the castle had red eyes for weeks, but Prism would have had to keep the household going, no matter how he felt.

  By the time they reached the nursery, the tin bath was half filled with steaming water. Peter upended the can he held. “That should do it. I filled the pitcher as well, Miss Belgrave, and your tub is waiting.”

  “Lady Artemisia, I will see you tomorrow morning,” Prism said, putting Artie down on a bed.

  Before he straightened, Artie patted his cheek and said, “Thanks.” Then she closed her eyes and went to sleep.

  Prism made a sound that in a less dignified man might have been a chuckle and left the room, silently closing the door behind him.

  North’s little sister was an excellent duchess-in-the-making: fearless, with an effortless assumption of rank combined with genuine charm and affection.

  “Well then,” Diana said, her voice strained with weariness. “If you’ll excuse us, Lord Roland, I must bathe the children.”

  “Prism has gone, which means I’m North, not Lord Roland. I’m not leaving until your hand is properly washed and bandaged.”

  He placed Godfrey on his feet and the boy swayed.

  “How far did you walk these two?” he asked, picking Godfrey back up before he fell over.

  “You make it sound like an accusation,” Diana said, slowly unpinning her cap.

  “Why didn’t you wear gloves? They would have protected your hands.” He determined that the bed next to Artie’s must be Godfrey’s. He laid him on his side, and the boy’s eyelids fluttered closed. “How easily they sleep.”

  Diana put her muslin cap, gray with dust, on the nursery table. “They usually nap much earlier than this.”

  “Why didn’t you wait for me?” he asked, the question coming from his mouth without permission. “I looked around, and the three of you were gone, even though we had walked to the village together.” He was fairly certain that his voice had a tone of civil inquiry.

  “There you are again,” she said.

  He frowned. “What?”

  “You’ve turned duke. Hoity-toity. One moment I think you’re human, and then you remind me of your rank.”

  “I apologize,” North said. “I didn’t mean to ‘turn duke’.”

  Back when he was in the nursery, with four boys living in proximity, someone was always getting hurt. In those days, the cupboard in the corner held a good supply of clean white cloths, a bottle of vinegar, and a jar of his aunt’s comfrey salve. Sure enough, they were still there.

  He brought them back, and poured warm water from the pitcher into a bowl. “Put your hands in the water. Please.”

  She was wearing the dress he had come to hate, black, and frayed at the neck. The very sight of it put his teeth on edge.

  Diana plunged her hands into the warm water and hissed under her breath as it met the raw wound on her palm.

  North had seen men succumb to infections that had settled in wounds that had not initially seemed grievous. He gently washed her hand with soft soap, making certain that no strands of rope or dust were left. He dried her hand, then poured vinegar over the laceration, ignoring her squeaking protests.

  “Infection is a terrible thing,” he said, keeping his voice low so as not to wake the children. Her hands were beautiful, with slender fingers that felt incredibly fragile. His hands were battered and scarred, whereas even her calluses were delicate.

  “This is merely a scrape,” Diana protested.

  North patted her hands dry again with a clean towel and looked carefully for dirt that had escaped him. “Why weren’t you wearing gloves?”

  She threw him a dark look. “Governesses do not have an unlimited supply of gloves, Lord Roland.”

  A flash of heat went down his back. Diana, his Diana, had injured her hand in order to conserve a pair of gloves?

  He added a mountain of gloves to the trunk of shoes he planned to buy for her, duchess or no. “I gather that you brought home a peahen?”

  “A mate for Fitzy,” she said, watching as he carefully dabbed salve on her palm.

  “Why didn’t you return to the castle and inform Prism that there was an appropriate bird for purchase?”

  “She was tied to a fence with a short rope. She has no feathers left around her neck. Her tail is missing feathers as well; I think they were deliberately pulled out and sold. I couldn’t leave her.”

  Tail feathers? Typical Diana, he registered. For good and ill.

  “Did you steal it?” He rubbed her palm.

  “Ouch!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I thought about it,” she said in a rush. “But the owner appeared. He was a horrid man, far too young to be so cruel.”

  “Cruelty is not the preserve of the old,” North pointed out, vivid scenes from the war racing through his mind.

  “I gave him money, and he said we should take her now, because otherwise he couldn’t be responsible for her safety. He said she’d pecked him one too many times. What could I do at that point?”

  “If we’d still been in the village with the pony cart, we could have helped. Damn it.”

  “There was no reason that you should have stayed,” Diana told him. “When we returned to the square, Mr. Calico had shut his caravan, so we began walking. It’s not far, but the peacock—did you call her a peahen?—was unexpectedly strong, especially for a bird that seemed half starved. Every time she spread her tail—”

  “Does Mrs. Fitzy have a tail that might rival our castle cock?” North interrupted.

  “No, she’s missing at least a quarter of her feathers,” Diana told him, frowning at the way he was winding muslin around her hand. “You can’t do that. I have to bathe the children as soon as they wake up.”

  “You may not bathe the children, because you mustn’t get your hands wet at least until tomorrow.”

  She snorted. “Please try not to be ridiculous. I have to bathe myself as well.”

  “I shall help you,” he said, his voice silky. He tucked the end of the muslin under the bandage, and Diana pulled her hand away.

  “No, thank you,” she stated.

  “Where is your nursemaid?” he asked.

  “Mabel? She’s probably in the dairy. She’s in love with one of the men who work there. Or perhaps with two,” she added. “She talks of them both.”

  “Adventuresome,” North commented. “She can bathe the children after they wake from their naps. You mustn’t get your wound wet, Diana. An infection can be very dangerous.”

  He could feel a tic in his jaw. Because, damn it, she had to be safe. “I’m not usually like this,” he said roughly.

  The white bandage made a glaring contrast to her dusty dress. “Mabel will help me undress, but thank you.” Diana’s eyes crinkled at the corners because
she was smiling, and God help him, her smile made him a bit dizzy. “Was there something else?” she asked, when he didn’t move.

  “Mrs. Fitzy?” he prompted. “You were telling me of the peahen with the battered tail.”

  “Yes.” Anxiety crossed her face. “Do you think that His Grace won’t want another peacock? I do realize that Fitzy makes a terrible racket. I didn’t think when I saw her tied to that fence, and all the feathers on her neck worn off from trying to break free.”

  “You didn’t think? Shocking.”

  She scowled at him.

  “How much did you pay for it?”

  Diana bit her lip, suspecting she might have paid too much. The peacock had cost more than the silvery fabric—but how could she say no? With Artie looking up at her, confident she would rescue Mrs. Fitzy, and Godfrey likely thinking the same thing?

  “You paid too much,” North concluded when she didn’t answer. “I’m sorry to tell you that Mrs. Fitzy is no mate for Fitzy.”

  Her mouth fell open. “What?”

  “The bird you describe doesn’t sound like a peahen. More likely, he’s a male in his prime, with or without all his tail feathers.”

  “Are you absolutely certain? How do you know?”

  “Peahens don’t have tails—or rather, nothing at all like the males’. Did you know that peacocks are quite territorial?”

  “Are you saying Fitzy will be insulted by the arrival of a new bird?”

  “We males tend to be like that.”

  “Hell’s bells,” she breathed.

  “Indeed.”

  Diana’s stomach tightened into the size of a walnut. She felt like an idiot. What if the duke was angry to learn that beloved Fitzy had a rival?

  “It will be good for the old bird,” North said, dropping a kiss on her dusty nose. “The scoundrel needs something to give him a new lease on life.”

  In an uncharacteristic show of timeliness, Mabel happened into the nursery at that moment. North pointed to Diana’s bandaged hand and announced that Mabel was in charge of the children until the following morning, and then he left.

  Diana ignored Mabel’s smirk. She refused to ask Mabel to help her disrobe. Or to help her bathe. She had never liked having a lady’s maid, and had happily left hers behind when she’d fled the castle last time.

  A duchess, she reminded herself, almost certainly had two maids. Duchesses were summoned to the court on a regular basis.

  It turned out that she did have a maid. When she slipped through the door to her bedchamber, North was seated before the fireplace, reading one of her books. “The History of the Peloponnesian War?” he asked, holding it up.

  “I’m trying to educate myself,” Diana said. “I don’t know anything about peafowl. Or Shakespeare.” She hesitated. “Or war.”

  He stood up, putting the book to the side, came over, and began briskly unbuttoning her gown. “Isn’t it a good thing that we’ve already been intimate, so you needn’t feel shy?”

  Diana felt shy anyway. It was one thing to make love in the middle of the night, and another to undress with afternoon sunlight slanting in the window.

  “Are you happy Lavinia has arrived?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “How many bloody buttons are on this dress?”

  Diana glanced down just in time to see his hands settle on her neckline and tear the tired fabric right down the front. She barely managed to suppress a scream that Mabel might have heard. “What are you doing?” She was so exhausted that tears came to her eyes. “This is like my shoes. You don’t understand.”

  North pushed off the pieces of worn cloth, made quick work of her corset, and sat down in the chair with her in his arms, wearing only a chemise. “I hate that dress.”

  “It’s mine,” Diana said shakily. “I had three, and now I only have two.”

  “You’ve forgotten that Lavinia is in the castle now,” he pointed out. “Your cousin will faint if she sees you in that rag again.”

  Despite herself, tears started down her face. “I made do,” she said, sobs shaking her voice. “I worked hard. Now everything is changing, and Godfrey and I will have to live with Lady Gray.”

  North tucked her closer to his chest, pushed a handkerchief into her hand, and thought about his plan to buy a house for her, with room for servants, in any part of the country she wished. She didn’t have to love him, or marry him, but she couldn’t stop him from taking care of her.

  “It’s not that I dislike Lady Gray. I just don’t want to do it again,” Diana said, hiccupping. “Dress and undress all day long, with endless dinners in the evenings, playing cards, which I hate.” Her voice trailed off in a sob.

  North put his chin on her dusty hair and rocked her back and forth. Every word she said struck arrows into his heart, but they reinforced his decision. He had to let her go. He couldn’t tie her to a fence until she lost all her feathers trying to escape.

  “You needn’t live with Lady Gray,” he said, when her sobs quieted.

  “I ca-can’t marry you, North.”

  “I know,” he said, the words leaden in his voice and heart. “I know you can’t. I understand.”

  “Almost certainly your father will live to be ancient, but North, you know that people don’t always live as long as they should. And I know it.”

  His arms tightened. “True.”

  “I wish I could,” Diana whispered. “I mean, I could, but I would be such a terrible duchess and you’d come to hate me. My mother did.” She stopped.

  “Hated you?” North had to remind himself that Mrs. Belgrave was not an enemy combatant. He couldn’t take revenge.

  “I never did anything right,” she said, burying her face in his chest. “The only way she could find me a husband was if I promised not to say a word.”

  “Your mother is a fool.”

  “Lavinia said Mother’s been shunned by polite society.” A huge sob shook Diana’s body. “She must be so unhappy.”

  North rocked her some more. Given a choice, Diana never would have married for the sake of a title. She was like his aunt in that.

  Unless someone forced her to.

  “How did Mrs. Belgrave make you behave as she wished? She didn’t harm you?” His voice fell an entire octave.

  Diana squeaked. “Absolutely not!”

  “Then?”

  Silence.

  “Diana.”

  “She threatened not to support Rose and Godfrey,” she said, her voice desperately sad. “I promised I would behave just as my mother wished, and wear whatever she wanted, and after I married, my mother would give Rose her dowry.”

  A growl came from low in North’s throat.

  “She thought I couldn’t do it, but I could and I did. I would have done anything for Rose. And Godfrey too.”

  “Rose was very lucky to have you,” North said.

  Tears wavered in her voice again. “I don’t know why she got that fever. She had money for a doctor.”

  “People are fragile,” North told her. “They die easily. You mustn’t blame yourself.”

  “You blame yourself, and you’re telling me not to? You lie awake at night thinking about the men you lost, don’t you?”

  He rubbed his cheek against her hair. “Something like that.”

  “Leaving Lindow Castle, leaving you, was the cruelest thing I could have done to my mother. I’m sure it broke her heart.” She took a deep, shuddering breath and wiped her eyes again.

  “I think it is grossly optimistic to assume that your mother has a heart,” North said flatly. He stood up and placed her on her feet. “The water must be cooling. May I bathe you, Diana?”

  She put her hands on his chest, and he tried very hard not to look down at her breasts, scarcely covered by her light chemise. Just as he had before going to war, he tried to memorize her, everything from her rounded lower lip to her curling eyelashes. “God, you’re so beautiful,” he said hoarsely.

  Up on her toes, she pressed a kiss on his
mouth. “I would be grateful for help bathing.”

  North nodded, turned around, and locked her door. Then he followed her to the bathing alcove. She was lucky enough to have a sturdy wooden tub, not a flimsy one made of tin. She looked over her shoulder before she pulled her chemise over her head and threw it to the side.

  If he hadn’t had a cockstand simply from being in her presence, it would have leapt to attention now. Her body was like a beautiful instrument, her breasts tapering to her waist, curving out again in a generous haunch, beautiful arse, legs . . .

  He watched her lean over and test the temperature of the water with one finger and managed not to groan. Another glimmering smile over her shoulder, and she stepped into the bath, carefully keeping her right hand well above the water.

  North shed his clothes faster than he ever had. She watched him, eyebrow raised. “None of my other maids have disrobed.”

  “It’s an efficient way to bathe.”

  North had never felt so large as when he squeezed into the bathtub, Diana between his legs, his erection pressed against her hip. She was soft and small, compared to him, and the flood of pleasure he felt was almost unbearable. When he picked up the ball of soap—honey-scented—his fingers trembled.

  Having Diana in his arms was a shock of joy. Like being struck by lightning, and all the more precious because it couldn’t be done again. His calm center—the part that navigated battlefields fearlessly—informed him that this would be the last time. She was not his, and she could never be.

  He made a lather, leaned forward, and soaped the delicate arch of her right foot. “You left your betrothal ring behind,” he said. “You could have sold it for a great deal of money.”

  “We grocers’ granddaughters don’t think it’s polite to sell a ring that a gentleman has given in promise of marriage.” Diana had her right hand well out of the tub, but the fingers of her left caressed his wrist, gently following the curve of his arm from wrist to elbow and sliding back again.

  “You broke your promise to your mother, rather than tell me the truth,” he pointed out. “I would have gone with you, Diana. I would have forced your mother to support you and Godfrey.”

  “I panicked. I did think of telling you, but how could I word it? ‘Excuse me. I’m so sorry, but I have to rescue my sister’s bastard and raise him as my own’?”