“Enough,” Thea said. “Wynchester did place himself in peril. A kiss of thanks was only appropriate.”
“A kiss,” Lavinia echoed to Sophia. “And in addition to that kiss, let us not forget Wynchester’s romantic,” she held her fingers the width of a halfpenny, “though a mite primitive, display the night he won Thea’s wager.”
Sophia smiled warmly. “My husband laid him out with a single blow.”
Lavinia laughed. “How you smile when you think of Lord Randolph! …but back to the duke.”
“Yes, the duke,” Sophia agreed. “Wynchester did look devastatingly disheveled—a man who had reached his rope’s frayed end.”
Thea’s lip quirked up as she thought of the staid duke’s attempt to carry her off like a marauding pirate. His passion had been affecting—disconcertingly so. As had the vulnerability he’d shown when she’d played him the song she’d composed.
“Come, you two,” Thea scolded, “I have always been fully aware of Wynchester’s corporeal…”
“Gifts?” Lavinia supplied helpfully.
Thea gave her a hard look. “His gifts were never the problem.”
Sophia laid a warm hand on Thea’s arm. “Have you and he…?”
Thea shook her head no. “Not since I returned.” They might have, if she had not needed to tell him of Eustace’s return. Or if—she flushed deep scarlet—Wynchester had made it to his carriage the night he’d tried to carry her away. But, following both cases, he’d been given too much time to think and had retreated back behind his walls of rules and order.
“We did not mean to upset you, dearest,” Lavinia said.
“You did not,” she replied.
She could despair of ever reaching him again, but deep in her heart’s cynical soup, Wynchester’s tears had caused a lump of hope to coalesce. If the perfect duke had deigned to show imperfection—there could be a chance for them after all.
Thea held out her arms to her friends and said, “Come.”
The three brought their heads together.
“We look nothing alike.” Thea studied their collective reflection in the glass—she, tall and pale, Lavinia wheat-skinned and autumn-eyed, and Sophia, pixie-petite, blonde and stunning. “But we are sisters of spirit, and formidable Furies.”
A shadow passed over Sophia’s features and she inhaled sharply.
“I am sorry,” Thea said. “I did not mean to remind you of your sister.”
Sophia gave Thea a squeeze. “That was not sadness, but a vow of vengeance.”
“The Worthington brothers had better take care,” Lavinia met Sophia’s eyes, “vengeance, and,” her gaze flowed to Thea, “just rewards, are soon to visit them both.”
…
Wynchester always paid his debts. For instance, the cask of fine brandy atop his desk, ready for Harrison to take home. He’d lost a bet with Harrison by insisting Lord Randolph and Sophia would never come together. Fortunately for him, Harrison was generous with his winnings. Wynchester swirled the amber brandy in his glass. He did not spill a drop, though his gaze was fixed not on his drink but on Thea Marie’s portrait.
In portrait, his duchess sat at his feet in two different ways—both beneath the painted Hessians in his companion portrait on the wall and just in front of his diamond-buckled shoes glittering above his carpet. In life—his lips turned up in a rueful smile—Thea Marie would never be so deferential.
A fortnight had passed since he found out his brother lived, and his efforts on Eustace’s behalf had left him little time for his wife. Yet every night he fell to slumber reliving the moment she’d allowed him to enfold her in his arms and give her comfort. The sensation had been unexpectedly poignant.
He’d known he desired her tenderness, and he had guarded against his weakness. What he hadn’t known was how much he’d wanted her to need him, nor how good it would feel to be needed.
When he had held her soft and pliant, for a few short moments his world had been perfectly ordered. Sentiment hadn’t sloshed and swelled and bubbled over, forcing him to act the fool. Instead sentiment had given him strength. The weight of a thousand mistakes had lifted.
…Only to settle again when he’d returned home with Eustace and discovered her softness had vanished.
The intervening days had been hell. He wanted Thea Marie back in his arms and his desire refused to be squelched by duty or reason. He was utterly lost, just as he’d been the night she had disappeared so many years ago.
She had left behind a spattered letter. The ink communicated to him what her words had not. She hated him. She hated him so much she’d not been able to write without crushing the nub of her quill against the paper. What if such hatred still existed within her heart?
The night she’d left, he’d been bereft of everything of value—his brother and heir, the hope of a child, and his maddeningly elusive wife. He had packed her away in a walled part of himself, had forbidden mention of her name from staff and friends alike. But the portrait he had not touched. Removing it would have been final.
…Too much to bear.
He hadn’t known then what to do with the portrait anymore than he knew what to do about the woman now.
He drained the contents of his glass. He swiveled on his heel to face Harrison and Randolph.
“Thank you for the drink, Harrison.”
“Since I won the tipple from you,” Harrison flashed a smile, “I thought sharing only fair.”
“A wager is a wager,” Wynchester lifted his empty glass, “and good reason to make an exception to my temporary exile from Bacchus’s fine pleasures.”
“And since,” Lord Randolph added, “said wager was placed at my expense, I graciously receive my cut.” He took a draught. “Ah, fine brandy, that. I think I will purchase some for myself.” He rolled his neck from side to side. “I am still on-the-mend from weeks of manual labor.”
“Manual labor,” Wynchester snorted, “is that what they call it these days?”
Harrison coughed. “So you do have a sense of humor, Wynchester.”
“Apologies, Randolph.” Wynchester clapped Randolph on the shoulder. “We are not so well acquainted for such a jest.”
“I daresay we must bond, Your Grace,” Randolph assessed him with eyes too keen for Wynchester’s comfort. “Harrison and I are the only ones who can advise you when the Furies commence their inevitable assault.”
Wynchester’s nod concealed unease. Harrison had been a trusted ally in government, but Wynchester was not inclined to share a bond with anyone—least of all one inspired by the duchess’s less-than-reputable friends. Yet, after observing The Furies together these past days, he quickly realized any attempt to separate them would be to his detriment.
Harrison made an approving sound as he took a sip from his glass. “When do you believe the duchess will lift her tipple prohibition?”
Wynchester rubbed the jaw Randolph had socked. “After the way I treated her person, perhaps never. I suppose I owe you my thanks, Randolph.” If he’d succeeded in carrying Thea Marie off, he may have succumbed to uninhibited passion—and frightened her away for good, this time.
Randolph acknowledged him with his own version of a barely perceptible nod.
“There will be wine for the guests tonight, of course,” Wynchester continued, “But otherwise I have complied with the duchess’s wish.”
“Do you have trouble controlling…?” Harrison’s questioning sentence hung mid-air before he changed course. “Ah, pay me no mind.”
“Come now, Harrison. You’ve never pulled punches before. You were about to ask if I have trouble controlling my urge to drink. Rest easy. I drink at the club or when I meet with friends.”
“Never alone?” Harrison asked.
“Rarely. I have not kept any spirits in the house for some time.” Not after he realized he reached for a draught—or five—whenever he had the urge to reach for his missing wife. “I overindulged in the Armagnac you sent over the night of the Soiree. Anticipation of
meeting my duchess had made me,” he grimaced, “immoderate.”
“Ah,” Harrison said. “A terrible waste of good drink!”
All three men laughed. In the silence that followed, he heard footsteps in the hall.
“Dear sister,” Eustace’s voice boomed. “Eavesdropping is not exactly the most auspicious way to begin a night of triumphant return.”
Wynchester smiled ruefully. He lifted his empty glass in a mock toast to her portrait. It was time to face his wife.
“Shall we,” he said, “join the Furies?”
Randolph opened the door, revealing the neat half-circle formed by Eustace and the ladies. To Wynchester, everyone but Thea Marie fell away.
Her blue eyes, looking near-violet tonight, left him breathless.
When they’d met, he would have described her eyes as elfin. Her gaze was harder now, deep and shadowed, but the childish softness in her cheeks had given way to fine form. One could no longer simply admire the duchess; she commanded one’s respect.
“Your Grace,” Lord Randolph stepped forward and made a proper bow. “You will be the talk of the town.”
Thea Marie broke the gaze that had stilled Wynchester. She turned her eyes on Randolph and smiled. As always, her smile—even turned on another man—cut through him like haberdasher shears.
“As you should know, Lord Randolph,” she said, husky and low, “we Furies strive to remain foremost on the lips of London’s greatest gossips.”
Sophia laughed. “Our gift to the young ladies less able to recover from their venom.”
The assembled party continued to exchange the kind of pleasantries one would expect. Pleasantries Wynchester had always prided himself on being able to perfectly execute—until now. As it was, he barely followed the conversation.
Thea’s gaze returned to his. “Have you no opinion, Wynchester?”
“Vulgar displays,” Eustace said, “offend my brother.”
“Do you find the Worthington crest vulgar, Eustace?” Thea smiled, stepped back, and angled her leg. “I do not.”
Wynchester’s gaze dropped to Thea’s petticoat, specifically to the Wynchester crest and motto, Duty and Fidelity, stitched into black linen and accented by skirts of the most stunning of color. Tyrian purple—the color of the ancient priestesses, the color of the gods. The costly dye, in Queen Elizabeth’s time, had been reserved for members of the royal family.
A vulgar display, perhaps, but her efforts warmed. She was heralding to their guests that she was every inch a duchess. Every inch his duchess, and proud to stand by his side.
Oh yes, there would be whispers. Duchess Decadence would rise above those whispers. A goddess swathed in silk. Utterly untouchable.
“Lord Eustace,” Lady Sophia said, “a duchess sets fashion, she does not have to follow its strictures.”
Eustace’s smile froze. “The use of a crest is taxed, is it not? Do you suppose Wynchester will be charged per dance partner?”
For the first time since Eustace’s return, Wynchester felt a modicum of annoyance toward his brother.
“Your Grace,” Wynchester bowed to his wife, “you do me great honor.”
Eustace harrumphed. “If she believes her sartorial flair will wipe away the years she ignored your consequence and blackened the family’s reputation, I think she will find herself mistaken.”
Wynchester straightened. “Enough, Eustace.” He looked back to Thea, and away from his brother’s darkening features. He’d done plenty for Eustace in the past few weeks. He was finished neglecting his wife.
“Duchess, you have never looked lovelier.”
To his disappointment, her look of triumph was directed, not at him, but at Eustace.
…
Wynchester gave her his arm, and she placed her gloved hand on the crook of his elbow. The warm look in his eyes had vanished. His arm was muscled and firm.
First Wyn was cold—then inviting—then, with no warning, back to cold. He was a confounding devil.
No—not devil. Devils were hot. He was ice. Not white ice, but the kind that filled the cracks between cobblestones, smooth as Wyn’s chestnut hair, now cropped and hidden beneath his wig. Dark ice—treacherous beyond one’s awareness until after one fell and was blinking into the winter sky.
She set her lips in a straight line. Outward perfection had always come easy to Wynchester. Perfect posture. Perfect address. Perfect standing…except she could not forget he was not all perfection. And his imperfections made up the part of him she wanted to know.
She rather regretted forbidding his tipple.
They stopped by the pianoforte while the others collected in the far side of the room. She tugged at the edges of her gloves and laced her spine with steel. She had known returning to the duke was not going to be easy.
Wynchester cast a sideways glance. “Are you steady?”
“Quite.” She shined her enameled smile. I can do this.
“Tonight,” he said low, “we must show unity—the Worthington family, as one.”
“You’ve made your wishes,” her eyes flashed, “and your priorities, clear.”
“Good,” his response was clipped. His gaze searched hers for an extended breath. He lowered his voice. “If you had spoken to Eustace the way he spoke to you, I would have answered in the same way.”
Her enameled smile turned brittle. “You are very talented at lecture.”
“At the very least,” anger flashed across his features, “you have acknowledged my talent for something.”
“Many things.” She put up her gloved fingers one by one. “Set-downs, cuts direct, efficient marshalling of your sycophants…”
He frowned. Then, his anger melted away into an ironic smirk. “At least I can coerce someone to listen to direction.”
She squinted. “I am not a sycophant.”
“No.” He made a leg—a brief bow that mocked more than it paid tribute. “My non-sycophant, duchess, I ask of you a boon.”
Despite herself she nodded.
“Be good, Thea Marie.” His eyes held no command—just uncertain apprehension. “Please.”
Please was not something one heard often from a Worthington. Her anger transformed into another, just as visceral response: challenge. She decided she’d like very much to hear him say please again. Her gaze traveled over his face and then followed the line of his jacket to his breeches. His finely fitted breeches.
Yes. Another please would be more than acceptable.
“Ah, Wyn.” She reached up and cupped the hard angle of his ever-so-perfectly shaved cheek. “I will behave…” she made her voice low and husky and leaned forward, “if that is what you really wish.”
Wynchester’s eyes grew entirely black. She sent him a warm smile, and then turned. As she walked away toward the solace promised by the Furies, she felt his gaze on her back with every step.
She’d always had a penchant to notice little things. Like the way Wynchester’s eyes grew dark when surprise cut through his armor. Odd such perception should quell her anger and save her tonight. When she was small, it had been her downfall.
Grandmother, there are small clouds trapped in the diamonds on your bracelet. Is that why you have to sell it? There’d been clouds in her grandmother’s eyes, too, as she responded. Silly child. Sit down.
Since then, she’d kept most of her insights to herself.
Her gaze flicked to the far corner and she noticed Eustace’s smile. It enveloped his cheeks and wrinkled his forehead, but his eyes remained largely unaffected, like the eyes of someone far away. Those eyes turned on her and a chill passed through her veins.
She held his gaze for a moment, sending her own silent message.
I will protect Wynchester at all cost.
Eustace gave her a mocking bow.
Challenge.
Chapter Five
The doors to the afternoon sitting room had been folded back so the room appeared as one with the gallery. On the outskirts, beplumed women spoke in low co
nversation with men in snugly tailored waistcoats. A small orchestra was seated to the far side of the Broadfield, awaiting direction. The air, if Wynchester was not mistaken, was lifted with a sense of excited expectation, even more so than at most soirees. He counted the people lining the closest wall. Twenty. A respectable crush, when you multiplied that number by the other walls flanked by chattering ton.
The evening, so far, had been a success.
He, Thea Marie, and Eustace had greeted every aristocrat of influence in London residence. Ensconced between himself and his brother, the duchess had behaved with perfect grace then, and later, while the two of them led the opening dance.
He had no reason to believe that she would not behave, of course. She had given her word. But she’d not taken his request with equanimity.
In fact, he could have sworn she had responded by flirting with him.
I will behave…if that is what you really wish.
Her gaze met his from across the room. She spread her black fan and cooled her cheek’s slight flush.
Oh yes, Thea Marie. Misbehave for me.
Two warring thoughts immediately reared in response. Where the hell did that come from? And, capitol idea. The second was accompanied of a vision of her black curls, tangled and damp around her temples and then cascading in waves across his white linen pillows.
He blinked to clear his head and motioned to the conductor. As the violins struck up the next dance, Thea took the arm of a man in her group—the MP of something-or-other, Tory, of course—and joined a group of three other couples. The feathers in her hair wafted as she stepped in time to the strains of a cotillion. The sight of her smiling at the MP was enough to make him consider rotten-borough reform.
His lips formed a thin, grim line.
Why was it he could look into the eyes of any man present and know exactly what he must do to bend them to his will, and yet know nothing of her thoughts?
He read men’s needs on their features with the ease others read newspapers. Never had he tainted his discernment with compassion, nor had he used his gift to acquire friendship. A duke’s business was to perceive, to know, and to direct, not to understand. And definitely not—his gaze briefly flit over Randolph and Harrison—to make friends.
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