The Accidental Duchess

by Jessica Benson

  “Make no mistake, Gwen,” he said, his voice low, “if I weren’t determined to act the gentleman, I could have you quivering with desire in ten seconds.”

  It was a challenge, and I knew it. He wanted me to acknowledge these disturbing sensations, that something indisputable lay between us. He looked dangerous, and arrogant, and challenging. How, I wondered again, had I ever thought he was Milburn? Easy, familiar Bertie?

  I felt my spine stiffen and then I straightened so that the wall was no longer supporting me. You already do, I thought.

  “We know your mother wants consummation. But what about you, Gwen? Do you?” He stepped even closer, so his body was almost touching mine. I scarce knew whether to suck in my breath to create more space between us, or to sway just the barest inch toward him, closing the distance. I looked into his deep, blue gaze, and could not lie.

  “Too much.” My voice was still a whisper.

  “Just so we both know it,” he said, low. Then a quick smile flashed across his face, and his eyes were sunny again. He took a step back. “But for now your virtue is safe,” he said lightly.

  “Thank you,” I said, wondering if I meant it.

  “Of course, having known your parents for some time, I have to take issue with whether or not you do in fact qualify as gently bred, Gwen,” he said, as he offered me his arm.

  I took it. “Having known them longer, I am in complete agreement,” I assured him as we stepped out into the cool sunlit day.

  So it transpired that we were, once again, laughing as we set out to the Clarendon, although this time, beneath the laughter lay the certainty that we would be having a very difficult interlude, indeed, before much time had passed.

  8

  In which we arrive at the Clarendon for the second time and I get foxed

  Our arrival, this second time around, was less auspi cious. True, it had started out as companionably as could be expected, given the circumstances, but somewhere on the journey that mood had faded, and was replaced by silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

  Once there, Cambourne wasted no time in making good on his promise to divest himself of Milburn’s garments. Within moments of entering the rooms we had almost shared last night, he had shrugged off his jacket, unwound his elaborate neckcloth, and removed his waistcoat. This was the second time in as many days that Cambourne had stripped off his jacket in front of me, and this time the gesture had left me strangely unsettled.

  This undoubtedly sounds odd, so let me see if I can explain: To see a gentleman without the trappings he would ordinarily present to the outside world speaks of intimacy. The first time he had done it, then, on our wedding night, it had seemed an appropriate enough familiarity. But today, it only served to remind me that I’d been laboring under, shall we say, a rather large misapprehension at the time. And so, it seemed, perhaps more importantly, had he.

  I gathered myself. “Cambourne?”

  “Yes, Gwen?” he said, turning back toward me, as he loosened his cuffs.

  I blinked, suddenly nervous. “Why?” I asked.

  He straightened, his hands going still, but didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Ah,” he said lightly. “I’d been about to offer you the proverbial penny for your thoughts. I see I needn’t bother.”

  “No,” I said. I still stood, just inside the door. “You needn’t. Just tell me, why did you do this? Why would you?”

  He didn’t answer either question, but instead walked over to the little table that held a decanter and several glasses. “Brandy?” he asked. “It’s French and it’s smuggled.”

  “Perhaps spirits are not the thing, at the moment,” I said, very repressively. “Is there ratafia?”

  “Almost certainly,” he said, picking up two glasses, and apparently completely missing—or more likely, ignoring—my intent. “But it’s vile stuff.”

  “I rather like it.” I smiled up at him, innocently. “But you’ve not answered my questions.”

  “No,” he said, easily. “I haven’t. But surely you cannot like ratafia? It’s sweet,” he said.

  “Precisely,” I told him. “That’s why I like it. And besides, I have never had brandy. It is one of those things not generally considered suitable for green girls.”

  “Perhaps, then,” he said, with a long look, “you are ready to try it. Or should be.”

  I gave him a long look back. “Not without being told why, I’m not,” I said, firmly.

  He unstoppered the decanter. “Well,” he said, “it has a complexity on the tongue that is sweet and, yet, underneath, not sweet at all. With a subtlety that, I can assure you, could never be mistaken for the cloying simplicity of ratafia. It starts with a burn and then subtlely changes to something entirely … different.”

  I held my ground. “Ratafia,” I said, most sternly, “is appropriate.”

  “Yes,” he said, lightly. “But entirely without any interesting, let alone unexpected, depths.” And before I could object, he continued. “Of course, I am happy to send down for some if you are not prepared to try something new, Gwen.”

  I looked at him. He was perfectly amiable, but his eyes glinted, and I knew he was waiting for my reply. I opened my mouth to say that that would be accommodating indeed of him. “It is not that I’m not ready,” I heard myself say.

  He did not reply, but raised a brow. An arrogant brow.

  “I am just not sure that I … want it,” I finished, weakly. After a moment, I held out my hand, and he handed me a glass. I hesitated, though, looking at it. I both wanted to try it and didn’t. “And, anyway, it seems foolish to be talking of beverages when we have other things to discuss.”

  “Were we talking of beverages?” he said, as he seated himself across from me.

  “Yes, I—Oh,” I said, feeling suddenly rather stupid as color flooded my face.

  He raised his glass. “Think of it as medicinal,” he suggested. “I know I am.”

  I laughed, despite myself, and took an experimental sip. It was rather nice, actually, and I could not help but think that his description had been fair. I liked the way I could feel it spreading through me.

  “This is good,” I said, as I took another, larger, sip. “Very comforting. I understand why they give it to people who have had a shock. Like me.” I looked up and caught his gaze. “Us.”

  He lifted his glass to me. “Us, yes,” he said wryly, before we both drank.

  “May I have more?” I held out my empty glass.

  His eyebrow went up, but he leaned forward and refilled it. I drank, deeply, again. I was convinced that its warmth would give me the courage not only to repeat my questions, but to be able to hear the answers. But somehow, before I knew it, my glass was empty again, and still I had not asked him. Wordlessly, I held my glass out again.

  He looked at me. “As much as I’m encouraging you to get stuck into the stuff, I should warn you that it is a bit stronger than what you are used to,” he said. “And I’d wager that you’ve not had much to eat since sometime yesterday.”

  I thought about it as I tipped my glass up, again, so that the last few drops slid into my mouth. When had I last eaten? I had only picked at my tray before the wedding yesterday, too nervous to eat. Then I hadn’t been hungry at the wedding breakfast and by the time last night’s supper had finally arrived, I, not surprisingly, had no appetite. And, now that I think on it, I had felt the same way about my breakfast tray this morning. “The day before, actually,” I told him, and he looked surprised. “But I’m not hungry. Are you concerned I’ll get foxed?”

  “Yes,” he said, succinctly, as he put down his glass and rose. He took mine and set it down. “Although,” he said, with that quick, disarming grin that made those improbable dimples come up, “admittedly, that was more or less the point.”

  I giggled. “So I wouldn’t be in any fit state to ask you questions, do you mean?”

  “Yes,” he said, which I thought very amusing of him.

  “Do you truly mean that you’v
e had nothing at all today?” he asked. “To eat?”

  “A cup of tea,” I told him, and then giggled again.

  He looked at me, one eyebrow raised, as though waiting for more.

  So, “A daring little oolong,” I told him. “Oh, and a small sherry. With Father.”

  “I would never,” he said, frowning, “have given you that second glass had I realized you hadn’t eaten at all.” I could almost feel his impatience as he said, “It will take too long if I ring. I’ll go down and order food. Wait here.” And then he strode out of the room, and I heard the outer door of the suite close.

  Where would I go, I wondered idly, even had I been so inclined? I leaned back in my chair, now, unconcerned about my inelegant sprawl. I felt warm and relaxed, and I could not understand in the least what had him so worried. Silly to imagine that I would get drunk from a few tiny glasses of brandy! It was not as though I was not used to champagne, and spirits were spirits, after all. Exactly how different could brandy be?

  I looked around the suite, and decided I might as well be really comfortable, so I took off my shoes and, putting aside all thoughts of ladylike decorum, put my feet up on the arm of the chair to better contemplate my situation. Actually, seeing the world through a brandy-induced haze was not entirely unpleasant, I thought. Of course my problems were still the same, but somehow that didn’t feel nearly so serious as it had a few hours ago. And I felt very sure that I would be able to get more information from Cambourne later. When I felt less … relaxed.

  If not for the one moment in which I’d breathed that fateful, “Oh, Bertie,” the entire thing would have been determined for us. I would be Cambourne’s wife in every sense of the word right now, and quite possibly none the wiser. And the very devil of it was, that in some very small part of me, I was not entirely certain that that might not have been the most desirable outcome: to simply have been carried along a little further by events, not to have to make any decisions.

  And even my feelings toward Cambourne were confused. I did know that I had to acknowledge that despite everything, my disappointment, my anger, my frustration, I felt an almightily powerful pull to him. That Milburn seemed to somehow slip further from me with each second that ticked by.

  I let my head fall back against the Clarendon’s exceedingly comfortable chair and thought back over my morning. Of my mother and Violetta, and poor, foolish Reverend Twigge, and my beleaguered father and his Corn, and started to laugh. From this perspective, the situation was vastly amusing, actually. I was still laughing when Cambourne returned.

  “I’ve ordered us some food,” he said, eyeing me worriedly, for which, really, there was no reason at all.

  “It’s very funny, actually,” I gasped, not bothering to sit up. “You. Me. My parents—You’re a good man on Corn, y’know,” I explained.

  “Naturally,” he said, politely.

  I nodded, ignoring the way the chair seemed to have begun to dip and sway in a most enjoyable manner. To be sure, it had seemed stable enough earlier. I closed my eyes, so as not to see the room whirling by, which felt like an exceptionally good idea. Why hadn’t I done that sooner? The chair was still moving, though. “Funny chairs they have here,” I giggled, before continuing. “Trussing chickens and whatnot. The Axton belfry. Violetta had crumbs on her whiskers,” I explained merrily. “Violetta told Reverend Twigge that all I need is a good toss between the sheets,” I told him. “Wasn’t that an abominable thing to say?” I finally opened my eyes, and rather wished I hadn’t. Because that was when I realized that it wasn’t the chair that was dipping and swaying. It, in fact, was perfectly stationary. It was the room that was tilting and spinning. For some reason this felt much less pleasant.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “It was.” His face was oddly out of focus. I quickly closed my eyes again. I really was sleepy, and the room seemed to have grown very hot.

  “Thing of it is,” I said, “that I always thought it would be Milburn. Tossing me, you know, between the sheets. Pardon my indelicacy.”

  “I’m nodding,” he said, and I held up my hand in grateful acknowledgment of the fact that he’d spared me having to open my eyes, which suddenly seemed enormously difficult.

  I let my hand fall. “Not that I ever particularly wanted him to, mind you. Just always thought that was how it would be. But he really didn’t want to toss me, I suppose,” I said, suddenly feeling bereft. “He must have been desperate not to. So he never came back and you had to take responsibility for tossing me for him.” Tears slid out from under my closed eyelids, and ran warm down my cheeks. “Milburn always did like to get someone else to do his dirty work for him.”

  I was dimly aware that Cambourne was kneeling in front of my chair and had taken my hands in his. “That’s not precisely how it happened,” he said. “And for what it’s worth, I would be honored beyond words to toss you.”

  “Oh, how lovely,” I said, sniffling. “Am I foxed, after all?”

  He laughed. “I think a bit, yes,” he said.

  “But don’t you see, Cambourne?” I said brokenly, aware that tears were still sliding down my cheeks. “As tempting as it is, I can’t possibly let you toss me without telling me why you did this.”

  I felt awful. No. Awful implies that there is some chance that you might someday feel better. I felt far, far worse than that. My head ached abominably and my mouth felt as though I had been chewing paper. I wondered when, exactly, I had been put to bed.

  Cambourne was sitting in a chair by the fire, a small book in his hand. A lamp was lit on the table next to him, but otherwise the room was in the encroaching darkness. He held a quill, but did not seem to be either reading or writing very prodigiously; but, rather, was staring into space. Careful not to open my eyes, I studied him from beneath my eyelids. On the surface he looked identical to Milburn, it was true. But he was so indefinably different that it made me feel like the veriest fool that I had not seen it instantly. Even taking into account that only approximately fifteen seconds had elapsed between my first glimpse of him and the commencement of the vows.

  In childhood what I had always understood was that the secret to telling one from the other lay in understanding their dispositions. There was something in the way they held themselves; the way they moved set them apart. Milburn was a lounging kind of person. He had a gowith whatever-the-outcome type of demeanor. Whereas Cambourne had a kind of intensity to him, as though he wanted to determine the outcome. While Milburn’s movements were languid, Cambourne’s were swift and decisive, with a quick kind of grace to them. His horses were always just a trifle faster, and their footing a tad more sure. His fish, bigger; his aim, truer. Milburn always played the prank gleefully, but Cambourne had usually been the one to think it through.

  And, of course, always there was the fact that Cambourne was the heir. He, apparently more purposeful from the very start, had emerged first, and to hear the tale, did it in a very rapid and straightforward manner. Milburn had ambled out, backward, some quarter hour later. And for his pains, or more accurately, his mother’s, ended up a second son, the simple Lord Edward, or as everyone referred to him, Lord Bertie.

  A perfect match for me, it seemed, since the thing that no one had thus far mentioned, was that my birth, although perfectly acceptable, put me well below Cambourne’s touch. It is true that my father is an earl, but he is not, you see, despite the vast quantities of blunt, a really old earl. The title of Axton goes back only a hundred years or so to a wealthy merchant ancestor who had the foresight to welcome the king with an open purse. We were respectable, by this point in time, certainly, but well below where Cambourne, as the future duke, would be expected to look for his bride.

  But now, in this room, the lamplight spilled over Cambourne, burnishing his dark hair and edging into the hollows beneath his cheekbones, his dark eyelashes casting faint shadows above them. One booted leg rested on the other knee. Whatever turmoil he might be experiencing was certainly not visible on the exterior. I could not unders
tand why he had such an unsettling effect on me. An effect that—if I were truthful I would have to acknowledge—Milburn did not, and never would. At this admission, the color flooded into my cheeks anew, and I was grateful for the darkness.

  “Water?” Cambourne asked, his quiet words startling me. At my nod—which had a most infelicitous effect on the throbbing in my head—he stood to bring me some.

  “How did you know I was awake?” I asked, when I could.

  And could see his smile as he replied, “Because you stopped snoring.”

  I felt a rush of heat as more color flooded my face. I was profoundly grateful for the low lighting of the room. “I do not snore,” I informed him with as much hauteur as I could muster, which, given my current woebegone state, was not all that much.

  Not enough, anyway, to deter him. “Actually, it appears that you do. Or, at least, when you’ve shot the cat.”

  “Ladies,” I said, making my tones icy, “do not shoot the cat.”

  “I see,” he said, slowly. “Much, I suppose, as ladies do not have baser instincts?” His eyes held mine. Even in the semidarkness, I could see the intensity in his.

  I dropped my gaze first. “I perhaps imbibed a tad unwisely,” I admitted.

  “No cause for alarm, though, your drunken snoring was, in fact, most ladylike,” he assured me. “And getting foxed seemed a perfectly sensible course of action under the circumstances.”

  “Don’t tease me, Cambourne,” I said. “I’ve a devil of a head.” The angry throbbing of which, in fact, was entirely his fault, it was beginning to dawn on me. I sat up further, against the pillows, and allowed my gaze to sweep over him.