A Duchess for all Seasons: The Collection

by Jillian Eaton

  But oh, how she wished she didn’t.

  “Step out of the way Newgate, I am going for a ride.” Stalking across the foyer, Eric threw open the door, admitting a gust of freezing wind so strong that it rattled the windows.

  “Another one?” Nonplussed by the tumultuous storm cloud hanging over his employer’s head, Newgate pulled a heavy greatcoat out of the closet and held it up. “Might I suggest you wear this, Your Grace.”

  Glaring out at the frigid landscape, Eric abruptly slammed the door and leaned back against it. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he closed his eyes and muttered a short, savage curse. “She told me that she loved me.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Yes, my wife!” He opened his eyes to glare at the butler. “Do you see a mistress skulking about? My wife, Newgate. My wife said she was falling in love with me.” His brow furrowed. “Then she told me I was cold, callous, and cruel.”

  “If I may be so bold as to speak openly, Your Grace…”

  Eric waved his hand. “Go on then. We both know you’re going to say what you want anyways.”

  The butler returned the greatcoat to the closet before he said, rather bluntly, “You are all of those things. And worse.”

  “Then why the devil would she be in love with me?”

  Newgate shrugged. “Stranger things have been known to happen.”

  “Do you think it’s a ruse to increase her allowance?” He suddenly recalled a conversation he’d overhead between his parents. It was from when they had still been living under the same roof, which meant he’d been a small boy of only five or six. They had been arguing – they were always arguing – and his mother had said something that had struck a chord deep inside of him even though he’d been too young to understand what it really meant.

  “If you loved me,” she’d wept, “you would try to make me happy.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?” the late Duke of Readington had blustered.

  As if someone had turned off a leaky faucet, his mother’s tears had immediately stopped. “You could buy me the emerald necklace I saw in the shop window yesterday. Then I would know that you truly loved me.”

  That was the first time Eric had learned love was not something to be freely given, but something traded. It was a lesson he’d never forgotten…whether he realized it or not.

  “Or perhaps she wants a new piece of jewelry,” he said thoughtfully.

  “I hesitate to speak on the duchess’s behalf, but I do not believe her to be the sort of woman who is interested in material possessions.”

  Eric’s frown turned into a scowl. “Then what the hell does she want?”

  “If I may be so bold, I believe what she wants is you.” A touch of gruffness was detectable in Newgate’s voice when he said, “You don’t see it, but your wife looks at you the same way my Adelaide used to look at me. True love is a precious gift.” Affection for the young man he’d raised as his own son softened the rigid lines around the butler’s eyes. “You would do well not to squander it.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The storm arrived with a vengeance. It snowed all through the night, and by the time morning came everything was covered in a heavy blanket of white, including the road to London. Standing with his arms crossed and his legs braced apart, Eric scowled out the drawing room window at the stone drive. Or at least where he imagined the drive to be. Given all the snow, it was impossible to tell precisely where anything was.

  He’d already gone out and checked on the horses. They were all tucked safely inside, contentedly eating their hay. But they wouldn’t be going anywhere soon.

  None of them would.

  “Blast and damn,” he cursed, turning away from the wintry landscape to glare at the hearth. The crackling fire, along with the velvet bows pinned to the curtains and the evergreen boughs draped along the mantle, gave the room a distinctly festive air. His brow creased as he noticed a clump of mistletoe hanging from the door. When the devil had that gotten there?

  Stalking over to the doorway, he yanked the mistletoe down and tossed it onto the nearest table. Then he happened to glance out into the foyer and his eyes widened, then narrowed.

  Bloody hell.

  Mistletoe, holly, and evergreens were everywhere.

  Dangling down from every doorway, wrapped around the staircase bannister, in vases on the windowsills. There wasn’t a drape or a doorway that had escaped decoration.

  “You there,” he barked at a maid passing by the drawing room. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  A flicker of fear crossing her face, the maid stopped short. “The meaning of what, Your Grace?”

  He gestured around the room with a vague sweep of his arm. “This. And that. All of it!”

  “Oh.” The maid’s nervous frown gave way to a beaming smile. “Isn’t it lovely, Your Grace? Why, I cannot recall a time the manor has ever looked so festive! Have you seen the gingerbread house in the solarium yet?”

  Eric blinked. “The ginger what?”

  “It’s absolutely marvelous,” the maid gushed. “Why, Her Grace even made little gingerbread men!”

  His jaw tightened. For most people, Christmas was a time of joy and celebration. But the winter holiday had never brought him much joy, and listening to his parents scream at one another had hardly been cause for celebration.

  On the rare occasion his mother hadn’t been in the arms of another man and his father had been sober enough to recall what day it was, they’d managed to have breakfast together as a family, but that was always where the revelry ended. There had never been any opening of presents in front of the fireplace, or kissing under the mistletoe, or burning the yuletide log. And there’d certainly never been any gingerbread men.

  “Where is she?” he growled.

  “I – I believe Her Grace is still in her bedchamber,” the maid squeaked. “Is there anything I can–”

  But he was already gone.

  “Anne, could you leave us please?” Caroline said calmly when her husband stormed into her bedroom, his face as dark as a storm cloud and his steely eyes flashing with temper.

  Dropping the comb she’d been using to style Caroline’s hair into a neat chignon, the maid was only too happy to scurry from the room. She closed the door neatly behind her, and in the brittle silence that followed her departure the quiet click of the tumbler falling into place sounded like a gunshot.

  Drawing her robe more closely around her shoulders, Caroline met Eric’s hard gaze in the silvery reflection of her dressing mirror. Like Perseus and Medusa, she thought, the corners of her mouth twitching. An apt comparison, given how Gorgonesque her husband had been acting as of late. If only defeating him could be so easy. Cutting off a monster’s head was a straightforward endeavor. Melting a duke’s heart was much more difficult.

  Mayhap even impossible.

  Picking up the comb Anne had dropped, she began to work it through her long hair, careful not to let the ivory spines catch on any tangles. “I see you have not yet left for London.”

  He jerked an irritable shoulder at the window. “We are completely snowed in. I wouldn’t be surprised if the roads were not cleared until well after Christmas.” He paused. “I see you have been decorating.”

  Surprised that he had noticed, she inclined her head ever-so-slightly. “There are still the second and third floors to be done, but the first is nearly finished. I’d planned on completing the library this afternoon.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you decorating?” he asked between gritted teeth. “No one asked you to.”

  “Because it is Christmas,” she said, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. “I did not realize I needed your permission.”

  “You don’t. It’s just…never mind,” he muttered, glancing away from the mirror as a muscle ticked in his jaw.

  Caroline frowned. “Do you not like Christmas?”

  “No. Not particularly.”

  “But
it is the happiest time of the year,” she said, aghast at the idea of someone disliking Christmas. Who didn’t love a house that smelled of fresh evergreens and carolers singing by candlelight and finding the perfect yuletide log to burn in the hearth?

  “For you, perhaps. But not for me.”

  “How can you hate Christmas?” she asked, genuinely puzzled. “It’s a time of joy and giving. Of celebration and festivity. Of hope and–”

  “I get the bloody idea,” he said curtly. “Not everyone was raised in the same fairytale family as yours. For some of us Christmas is simply another day.”

  She barely managed not to snort. “I would hardly call my family a fairytale. You’ve met my mother.”

  “And you should consider yourself lucky that you’ve never met mine.”

  Something in the way he spoke caught her attention. Her winged brows drew together over the bridge of her nose. “I…I am afraid I do not understand. I thought your mother was…”

  “Deceased?” he drawled when she hesitated. “Hopped the twig? Popped her clogs? Gone to a sticky end?”

  Caroline gasped. “I really don’t think you should speak of the dead in such a manner. Especially your own mother.”

  “The old witch isn’t dead.” He rubbed his chin. “Or at least I don’t think she is.”

  “You mean you do not know?”

  “How would I? We haven’t spoken in nearly ten years after she made it clear that her various lovers were more important than her own sons.” Although he managed to keep his voice steady, he couldn’t quite disguise the flash of pain in his eyes. “Your Christmases may have been spent roasting chestnuts by the fire, but I can assure you I do not have such happy memories.”

  It was the first time Eric had ever revealed anything of a personal nature, and her heart ached for the boy whose mother had been so callously selfish that she had preferred the company of another man to her own children.

  No wonder Eric held love in such bitter disregard! Her own mother was hardly perfect, but at least Caroline knew that she was loved. What would it have been like to grow up without that assurance? Terribly lonely, she imagined. No wonder her husband thought himself incapable of love. How could he know what it felt like to love someone if he’d never been loved himself?

  As a new sense of understanding for the complicated man she’d married softened the hard edges of her anger, she set her comb aside and gathered her long mane at the nape of her neck. “Would you mind helping me?” she asked softly. “Anne makes it all look so easy, but I fear fashioning a chignon is much more difficult than it appears.” Her lips curved in a self-deprecating grin. “Or perhaps I would simply make a poor lady’s maid.”

  Eric crossed the room to stand behind her and she felt her spine tingle with awareness when he gently rested his hands on her shoulders, warm fingers sliding beneath the lace edge of her dressing robe.

  “What do you need me to do?” Their eyes met in the mirror, pale gray sinking into deep, dark blue. She saw the arousal in his gaze. Felt it in the heat pulsing from his body. Heard it in the husky velvetiness of his voice. If only she could magically turn his lust into love! There was plenty of it to spare. But of course it wasn’t that simple. Nothing worth having ever was.

  “Just hold – hold this pin,” she said, her breath catching when his thumbs slowly traced along the edges of her collarbones.

  “There’s only one problem,” he murmured, his breath warming her cheek as he leaned in close. He smelled of brandy and the faintest hint of peppermint. Heat pooled between her thighs and she squirmed on the velvet stool as a wave of desire swept up through her body, threatening to drown out all common sense.

  “What – what is that?” she asked weakly.

  “I like your hair down.” He slowly drew her hands away from her hair and it tumbled down her back in a curtain of burnished gold. Sweeping it to the side, he started to kiss his way down her neck, but when his hand slipped between the folds of her dressing robe and cupped her breast she stiffened.

  “W-wait,” she gasped as logic pushed against longing. “This will not solve anything.”

  “I can think of at least one thing it will solve,” he said meaningfully, capturing her wrist and placing her hand on his hard phallus.

  She began to touch him through his breeches, her head falling back on a moan of pleasure as he captured her mouth and boldly slid his tongue between her lips in a series of long, drugging kisses that left her dazed and disoriented.

  His hand slid between her thighs and they fell open. She was already damp with need. He growled his approval as he parted her curls and began to stroke the sensitive bud nestled above the heart of her femininity. Six long, sensuous slides of his finger against her quivering flesh and she was completely lost.

  Logic? What was logic when she had passion? This was what she craved, after all. To feel desired above anything or anyone else. To feel needed. Need was a poor substitute for love, but in the moment it was all she had…and she clung to it with the desperation of a drowning sailor trying to keep his head above water.

  Her palms bit into the marble edge of the dressing table when he dragged her to her feet. Drunk on desire, she vaguely heard the crash of the stool as he kicked it aside. She hissed out a breath when he hiked up her robe and the cool air brushed against the back of her legs, but then he plunged himself into her warm, wet sheath and there was only heat.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I – I did not realize you could make love like that.” Feeling suddenly, inexplicably shy, Caroline busied herself with straightening everything that had been knocked askew on the dressing table during their…exertions.

  Eric grinned at her in the mirror as he tugged on his breeches. “There are all kinds of ways to make love. We’ve hardly scratched the surface.”

  Her interest piqued, she stole a quick glance at him over her shoulder. “Do you know all of them? The ways, that is.”

  “Hardly.” Wrapping an arm around her waist, he yanked her against his chest. “But luckily for you, I’ve decided to devote myself to learning each and every one,” he whispered throatily into her ear.

  A blush stole across Caroline’s cheeks. “That’s – that’s very naughty of you.”

  He bit her neck. “I know.”

  She watched snow fall from the pale, moody gray sky as she remained wrapped in the duke’s arms, content to listen to the shallow rasp of his breaths and the steady thump of his heartbeat. He was warm and comforting and on a soft sigh she let her head fall back against his chest as her eyes drifted closed and a small smile curved her mouth.

  This was all she wanted. To feel loved. To feel special. To feel like a real wife, not a mistress to be picked up and discarded when the mood struck.

  “This is nice,” she murmured, but no sooner had the words left her lips than Eric let her go and stepped back. Bereft of his body heat, she shivered as she turned, fingers sinking into her ribcage as she hugged her arms around herself. Then she saw his expression. His cool, distant expression. And she shivered for another reason all together.

  “You may decorate the first floor as you see fit,” he began, speaking in the detached tone of a lord addressing a servant instead of a woman he’d just been inside of. “But leave the second and third floors alone. I won’t have my bedchamber filled with holly and mistletoe and God only knows what else.”

  This time her heart didn’t ache.

  It shattered.

  “It will never be any different, will it?” she whispered as tears born of misery and despair burned the corners of her eyes. “You and I. Our marriage. It will never change.”

  “If the bloody evergreens mean that much to you–”

  “It isn’t about the evergreens!” she burst out. “I mean I suppose it is, a little bit. But it really isn’t.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’re not making a damn bit of sense.”

  “And neither are you! How can you hold me so tenderly one moment and speak to me so coldly the ne
xt? Am I nothing more than a – a warm body to you?”

  “Do not be ridiculous,” he scoffed. “You’re my wife.”

  “Your wife. Your wife.” Hysteria bubbled up inside of her, pitching her voice up an octave and curling her hands into fists of bewildered outrage. “I am no more your wife than you are my husband. You said it yourself! This marriage is nothing but one of convenience.”

  “And?” he said expectantly.

  “Oh!” Reaching blindly behind her, she picked up the first thing within reach and launched it at her husband’s head. The perfume bottle missed by several feet and crashed against the wall, filling the bedchamber with the scent of honeysuckle and night jasmine. “If you were too thick-skulled to understand the first time, I am not going to waste my breath explaining it once more!”

  “Now see here,” he growled, but she jumped back when he reached for her.

  “No.” Hair whipped across her cheek as she shook her head from side to side. “You’re not going to lull me into complacency with your – your charm and your kisses. Not again!”

  “Lull you into…what the devil are you talking about?”

  “I am sorry your mother did not love you the way you needed her to.”

  Eric’s eyes flashed a deep, ominous blue black. “This has nothing to do with my mother.”

  “Of course it does!” she shrieked, and for the first time a genuine flicker of alarm crossed the duke’s countenance.

  “Caroline–” he began, but she was not having any of it. Having gone this far, she wasn’t going to stop until she finally said what was in her heart. Her poor, battered, broken heart.

  “Don’t ‘Caroline’ me. You may be blind to the fact that whatever poor relationship your parents had has given you a misguided notion of what love should be, but I’m not.” She drew a deep breath.

  “I know you are capable of more than what you’re giving. I’ve felt it when you touch me. I’ve seen it in your eyes when you look at me. It would be easier if you really couldn’t love me. But I know you can. I know it.” Tears spilled from her lashes and streamed down her face. “You just don’t want to.”