The Reluctant Duchess

by Jane Goodger

  Anger rushed through her. “Do you not care that you and your whims have ripped me from my family?”

  “It was hardly a whim,” he snapped. The pacing began again and Rebecca stepped back lest he collide with her. “Get on the bed.”

  She gasped. “No.”

  “This marriage must be consummated.”

  “This night? This hour?” Rebecca hated that her voice trembled. “I don’t even know your given name.” Hot tears pressed against her eyes.

  “Oliver.”

  She heard him move toward the bed, the sound of the mattress sinking beneath the weight of him, and she stood still, her muscles aching from her stillness.

  “This is not what I imagined,” he said. “I thought if it was dark, it would put you at ease. I imagined this going far differently.”

  “What did you imagine? How could you have thought any girl would feel at ease in such a situation?”

  She thought she heard a chuckle. “You are a duchess.”

  “I never had such lofty aspirations. I want…” I want to go home. Her throat ached so, she knew she would be unable to speak for several moments.

  Movement, the sound of fabric shifting. “Tomorrow night, then.”

  And then he was gone and Rebecca sagged with relief. Tomorrow night. Please God, she would be gone from this place, from this marriage. No one should be asked to endure such a thing. She bit the side of her cheek to stave off tears. But no, she could not leave, and that realization left her defeated. Such an act would be disastrous for her family. She must endure. She stood there for several long minutes, partly to make certain he had indeed left her room, and partly because she could hardly bring herself to move. She stood where she was, her arms clutched around her, and tried with all her being not to crumple to the floor and cry. “Oh, Papa,” she whispered, her heart aching. “See what you have done.”

  After several minutes trying to get hold of her emotions, she shook her head as if to clear it. Then, hands in front of her, Rebecca searched for the pulls that would bring a footman to her room to start a fire; she was about to scream out her frustration when she finally felt the thick velvet rope. She pulled, hard, and tried to control her emotions. A fire would calm her. It was the utter darkness that made everything even more frightening; she would feel better with a cheery fire in the grate.

  Tomorrow night.

  Oh, God, how could she do this thing?

  Chapter 4

  Oliver strode to Mr. Winters’ suite, growling at a maid who ducked her head and skittered out of his way, annoyed that yet another female was frightened of him. When he reached Winters’ door, he stopped to collect himself, then gave up on the effort and slammed his fist against the wood.

  “Winters,” he shouted. “Open immediately.”

  He did so, calmly. “Yes, Your Grace? I must say I am surprised to see you so soon. Did it not go well?”

  Oliver pushed past him, ignoring Winters’ mocking tone. “It did not go at all…” His voice faded when he spied the secret passageway access, slightly ajar. Oliver turned, his fists clenched tightly by his sides as rage filled him. Winters quietly closed his door and turned to him, his eyes flickering to that gap in the secret panel. He wondered if Winters knew how close he was to violence. He could not, given the bland questioning look Winters was now giving him. “You are never to look at her when she is in her chambers. Never.”

  “I did not,” Winters said with excruciating care.

  “But you were there, were you not?” Oliver had known Winters long enough to understand the nuances of conversing with him. Winters had not seen his wife, but he had most certainly heard her—and him—from the secret passageway. The wave of humiliation that swept over Oliver was nearly staggering.

  “We know nothing of this woman,” Winters said, tugging on the sleeve of his jacket. “She could have been bent on murder for all I knew. Someone has to protect you.”

  The thought that Winters had been there, listening, was beyond mortifying. “You will not do so again. In fact, I shall board the entrance up.”

  “There are dozens of entrances, some we likely aren’t even aware of. I hardly think that is practical.”

  Oliver took two long strides toward Winters and grabbed his lapels, thrusting him violently against the door. Winters’ eyes widened, but other than that small movement, he gave no indication that he was alarmed. By God, Oliver thought, Winters would be alarmed if the man knew what he was feeling at that moment. “I shall have the entire system of passages removed.”

  “Calm yourself, Your Grace,” Winters said with maddening composure. “Think of how much more difficult your life would become without the passageways.”

  Oliver dropped his hands and stepped back, disgusted with himself for exhibiting such behavior to a man who’d been more father to him than his own father. “I want your word, then. You shall never watch her or listen to her while she is in her chambers. Or mine.”

  Winters frowned, as if Oliver were being unreasonable. “May I speak frankly to you, Your Grace?”

  “When have you not spoken frankly, Winters?” Oliver asked darkly.

  “This was a mistake, Your Grace, this marriage. On the journey here, I became convinced that she is not suited for you.” He paused, as if trying to get a bad taste from his mouth. “She is more suited to be a maid in this house than its mistress. She comes from a large brood of children, sired by a wastrel and a woman as common as a barmaid. Her blood will taint any children you have. As you have not consummated the marriage, you can still have it annulled. Then, if you wish to make her your mistress, so be it. But to have her here, acting as duchess, it is untenable.”

  “Take care, Mr. Winters. Your position here has never been more precarious.”

  Winters’ face tightened imperceptibly. “You would choose a girl you don’t know, who is nothing, over me? I have been loyal to a fault. I have protected you, taught you, made your life as rich as possible, given your affliction. I tell you, Your Grace, that this woman is common in the most basic definition of the word.”

  “Yes, Mr. Winters, I would choose my wife over you. Over anyone.” Winters paled, clearly shocked at Oliver’s words, and Oliver sighed. “You have been a loyal friend, but we are discussing my wife. You have not given me your word.”

  Winters pressed his lips together as if trying to stop himself from speaking. Finally, he smiled. “Of course, Your Grace, I will not spy on your lovely new bride.” He hesitated only a breath. “You have my word.”

  “Then I bid you good evening, sir.” Oliver left, his body still thrumming with anger.

  Winters could not know what was behind his fascination with his wife; he could hardly understand it himself. His wife was as lovely as he’d imagined she would be. Thanks to the intricate and expansive passageways in the house, he’d watched her arrival, seen her look around herself with dismay at the dimly lit entrance, the long gloomy hallway. Though his poor eyesight made it impossible to make out details from any distance, he could see her lithe form, that delicate face he’d stared at for weeks. And he’d heard the maid tell her that anyone who looked at him would turn to stone.

  He actually hadn’t heard that one and had laughed aloud. Vampire. Ghost. Devil. But never some sort of demon who was so monstrous he would turn an innocent victim to stone. No wonder the servants refused to look at him; then again, he was glad they did not, so perhaps he should let things be.

  Still, he had to wonder where such outlandish stories had come from. As he reached his room, he looked down at his hand, starkly white against the dark wood. A hand made of marble. Or ice. Ah. Of course. He supposed in a certain light it did look as if he were made of stone. He stood there for a long moment, staring at his hand as it gripped the doorknob; it almost seemed to glow in the darkness. Shaking his head once, a sharp, angry gesture, he pushed into his room and slammed the door. And reali
zed he’d forgotten to confront Mr. Winters about the nefarious scheme he’d used to force Miss Caine into marrying him.

  With a sigh, he removed his banyan and threw it on the end of his massive, ducal bed. Only three women had joined him there, local prostitutes, Winters had said, who were used to servicing clients no matter their appearance. The first time he’d been sixteen, skinny, and excessively excited and nervous about losing his virginity. Winters had suggested he keep the room dark and he had. But afterward, when the girl was affectionate, he’d thought perhaps he’d be able to invite her back, so he’d lit a small lamp.

  A mistake, that.

  “My God, it’s true,” she’d said, looking at him with horror. “Yer the devil himself.” She’d fled the room in tears, and realized only after she was out the door that she was unclothed. Thankfully, Winters intercepted her and retrieved her belongings before sending her on her way. Winters had probably been behind his wall listening, then watching. It was a disturbing thought.

  Oliver’s grandfather had been a bit of a nefarious character, smuggling in French goods. He’d been in league with a mean group of locals who’d used Horncliffe as their headquarters. Indeed, the house had been built for the purpose of smuggling, with a vast labyrinth of passageways beneath the house, long since closed up, that had once led to the sea. Part of the building plans included the secret passageways that allowed one to travel from the top floor to the basement without being seen by the occupants or guests of the house. It was a clever design and one Oliver appreciated. He would dislike closing the passages up or destroying them, but he could not be certain Winters would keep his word.

  And he would dislike even more having to walk the hallways, exposed to prying eyes.

  Now that he was married, he knew things would have to change. Servants might accept the strangeness of the household, but a wife would not. Perhaps that was why Oliver had married, to force a bit of normalcy onto his home. Normal. It was word that pierced his heart.

  He thought back on what Winters had said of her background: sired by a wastrel and a lowborn woman. Based on his brief conversation with his wife, he did not believe this to be the case. While she didn’t have the diction of a lady, she certainly carried herself well and had been exceedingly poised, given the situation.

  She was fierce and lovely. Angry. Thank God there had been no tears, even though he thought he’d detected the slightest trembling in her voice. Damn it, he didn’t want her afraid of him as so many were. He wanted… God, it was so stupid. He wanted her to love him.

  Oliver laughed aloud.

  The sound of tapping on the door that adjoined his suite at first startled him, for no one ever had walked through that door.

  “Your Grace?”

  Hastily, he blew out the lamp that offered dim lighting in his chambers. He had a merry fire blazing in the hearth and it was still far too bright in the room to admit a visitor, especially his new wife. “Yes?” He stood there, taut, waiting for her response.

  “I pulled on the rope and no one came. My room is cold, sir. And dark.” A silence. “And then I pulled harder, thinking I hadn’t pulled hard enough, and the entire thing came off. So…”

  “You would like me to send for a footman to light your fire.”

  “I would, yes.”

  Oliver strode to his bell pull and gave it a sharp yank, then walked to the adjoining door and laid a palm upon it, imagining he could feel her warmth on the other side. “I’ve called for a footman; he should be up shortly.”

  “Thank you.”

  Oliver stood there, trying to hear whether she’d moved away. “Rebecca?”

  “Yes?” She was still there, separated from him only by an inch of door.

  “I apologize for everything. For bringing you here. I was unaware of Mr. Winters’ scheme. But you should know I am still glad you are here. I don’t wish for you to be frightened of me.”

  “I’m not,” she said quickly. Then, “Perhaps a little. This is all strange to me. A large mansion like this. We lived in a manor house with twelve rooms and thought we were quite the thing. This is a palace in comparison. And it’s so…dark.”

  “Ah. My eyes, you see. I cannot tolerate bright light. It is painful for me.”

  “I should like to go home.” There, her voice closed on that last word, and he knew she was fighting back tears.

  “You cannot. You are my wife.” There was a small sound and he prayed she was not crying but knew she was. “Please do not cry, Rebecca.”

  “I’m not crying,” she said in a voice that told him she was.

  He smiled and stared at his pale, pale hand splayed on the door. “No matter what you may have heard, I am not a monster. I am just a man who wants a wife.”

  A long silence followed. “Then why not allow me to see you?”

  Because you would most certainly leave. “It is not possible. Not now.”

  A knock sounded on his bedroom door and he strode to it. “Her Grace requires a fire and a lamp. See to it.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Oliver returned to the door and listened to the quiet murmur of his wife’s voice as she instructed the footman.

  “Oh, a lamp. Thank you.”

  She said this last more loudly, and Oliver knew she was directing the gratitude toward him. That she should thank him for something as simple as a lamp bothered him. That she suspected he was still at the door listening bothered him even more.

  Her room was beyond lovely. Holding the lamp in front of her, she walked barefoot on the softest carpet she’d ever tread upon. It was a light pink with blue and white flowers and covered much of the cold stone floor. The walls were gold, the trim white, the ceiling painted sky blue with soft, billowy clouds. Indeed, it was so far from what she’d expected when she’d been standing in the dark, she let out a giggle. This was not a monster’s lair with gargoyles and dark, heavily carved paneling, but a room fit for a duchess. Which was what she was.

  Oh, goodness.

  It was more than a room, but rather a suite of rooms that included a sitting room with ceilings that soared above her. The furniture was feminine and well-crafted, with soft tufted seats in the palest pink, a large settee in gold and white, and another plush carpet on the floor. She spied another door, left ajar, and wandered over to it, curious what it could lead to, and smiled when she realized she now had a private bath. It was a ridiculously large room, larger, in fact, than her old bedroom at home, and contained modern conveniences she’d seen only in the posh hotel she and Winters had stayed in on their journey here. It included a washing basin with running water and a large tub. The commode was an impressive piece of furniture with a comfortable-looking seat and a clever little door where the chamber pot could be removed. But the most wonderful part of the water closet was the bathing tub, pristine and white, with brass spigots for filling. It couldn’t be…

  Rebecca tiptoed over to the tub and turned the spigots, first one then the other, gasping when after a time, hot water began spewing out, steam rising from the bath. Why, she’d nearly be able to swim in hot water when she bathed. Everything in the room appeared new, and she realized it had been created for her.

  Turning the spigots off, she sat on the edge of the large, deep tub and thought about her predicament. She was not a prisoner, and even if she were, this was certainly a pretty cell. Yes, this marriage was odd, but the duke hadn’t forced himself on her. Hadn’t ranted and raved like a madman, even when she’d said she wanted to go home. In fact, something in his tone had held a plaintive note, as if he were fully aware of how awful this experience must be for a provincial girl like her. No matter what you have heard, I am not a monster. I am just a man who wants a wife. Such an odd way of going about it, but here she was, married. A duchess. A duchess.

  With a determined step, she walked back to the door that adjoined her suite to the duke’s and tapped light
ly.

  A moment later: “Yes?”

  “My rooms are lovely, Your Grace.”

  “I am glad. Have you eaten?”

  Rebecca had been so overwrought she hadn’t given food a thought, but as soon as he’d mentioned it, she could feel her empty stomach calling to be filled. “No.”

  She heard a curse, then footsteps. “You shall have dinner brought to you shortly.”

  Though she didn’t want to put the cook to the trouble, she was hungry. Now that she gave it some thought, it was odd that no one offered her anything to eat. “Thank you. And good night, sir.”

  “Good night.”

  Rebecca awoke when a maid entered her room to tend the fire. The drapes were still closed, but a sharp slice of sunlight split the room and Rebecca smiled. Surely nothing too awful could happen when the sun was shining so brightly.

  “Good morning.”

  The maid turned around, startled. “Good morning, Yer Grace,” she said, and made a quick curtsy. It seemed strange to have someone curtsying to her, but she’d get used to it eventually, she supposed. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” In the Caine household, the servants were more like family than employees, quick to give their opinion or disapproval. Perhaps it was that she was unused to dealing with staff in such a lofty household, but Rebecca sensed an underlying disquiet amongst the staff that went beyond fear of their eccentric master.

  “Please do not worry. I am used to waking early. I grew up in the country and rise with the sun every day.”

  The maid, a thin, pale thing with her blond hair pulled tightly up under her cap, gave her a strange look that was quickly masked.

  “What time is it?”

  “Just past the noon hour,” the maid said.

  Rebecca let out a laugh. “My goodness, I must have been more tired than I thought. I haven’t slept so late in years, and then I was ill. What is your name?”

  “Sally, Yer Grace.”