A Duchess for all Seasons: The Collection

by Jillian Eaton

  Well that hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped. Grinding his teeth together in frustration, Derek stalked into his study and slammed the door in his wake, a loud indication that he was not to be disturbed.

  In anticipation of his arrival the large room, trimmed in mahogany and dark blue drapes, had been swept, dusted, and polished with beeswax. Not a small undertaking given the long wall of floor to ceiling bookshelves and heavy leather furniture, but his staff was nothing if not well trained. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of his wife.

  He had hoped a year in the country with Georgiana might have civilized Eleanor, but if her mud-splattered dress and mop of wet hair were any indication she’d gotten worse instead of better. He had come to Hawkridge expecting to be greeted by a woman who at least resembled a duchess in appearance if not demeanor. Instead he’d gotten a wet street urchin who had looked as if she’d been dragged in off the streets of St Giles.

  Sitting heavily behind his desk, he poured himself a glass of brandy and leaned back in his chair. He stared hard at the ceiling, studying a narrow crack in the white plaster as he wondered how the hell he was going to woo a wife that was more wild than tame.

  Derek knew he would be well within his husbandly rights to force himself upon her, but his stomach rebelled at the thought. If their marriage was consummated – when it was consummated, he corrected as he sat up and took a sip of brandy – Eleanor would be a willing participant. He’d make sure of it. After all, underneath all that mud and behind that shrewish temper was a woman like any other. And if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was charm a woman.

  She’ll be eating out of my palm before the end of the week, he thought confidently before he finished the rest of his brandy and prowled to the large bay window overlooking the east lawn. If not for a heavy fog he would have had a clear view of the stables. Instead the only thing he could make out through the hazy gray mist was the bronze weathervane perched atop the largest barn. A fiftieth anniversary present from his grandmother to his grandfather, it was a large destrier in full gallop. Every year his grandfather had seen to it that the weathervane was taken down and polished, but since his death it had gone untouched and a faint patina had begun to set it, giving the stallion’s mane and tail a greenish tint.

  Absently drumming his fingers along the wooden sill, Derek turned around and let his head fall back against the cool glass with a dull thud. Five years he’d been the duke, and some days it still felt as though his grandfather was standing around the corner, just waiting to lay into him with a blustering diatribe about how much of a disappointment he was. No matter what he’d done, it had never been enough to earn the late duke’s approval…or his respect.

  The cantankerous old bastard had made it very clear he wished it was his son inheriting the title instead of his ‘worthless wastrel of a grandson’. He’d snarled the words so many times that they’d become imprinted in Derek’s subconscious, and more than once he could have sworn he had heard the raspy whisper of his grandfather’s voice late at night when the halls were dark and the moon shone bright.

  Hawkridge Castle may have been the pride and jewel of the dukedom and where he’d spent most of his childhood, but it would never be home. Not as long as his grandfather’s memory continued to lurk in every shadow and corner.

  Pushing away from the window, he returned to his desk and picked up a quill pen. If he was going to be stuck in this Godforsaken place for the undeterminable future, he might as well make the best of it. His solicitor usually took care of his business correspondences, but the man’s wife was expecting a child any day so he had been unable to leave London which meant Derek was – at least temporarily – in charge of his own affairs. Having always had a good head for numbers and a fluid hand, he didn’t mind the extra work. In fact, it was just the distraction he needed.

  A distraction from ghosts.

  A distraction from piqued mistresses.

  And, most importantly, a distraction from red-haired wives with waspish tongues and the biggest, greenest eyes he’d ever seen…

  Chapter Eight

  Eleanor was just emerging from the tub after a long hot soak when the door to her bedchamber suddenly swung open and her husband stormed in. With a loud gasp she instinctively reached for the nearest thing to cover herself with. In this case, a sheer silk wrapper her maid had left draped over the bathing screen. Unfortunately, the flimsy material did little to conceal her nakedness. Instead it clung to her damp flesh like a second skin, and her entire face flushed a dull, deep red when she realized every inch of her body was on full display in the flickering candlelight, from her dusky pink nipples to the soft nest of auburn curls between her thighs.

  “What are you doing in here?” she exclaimed. “Get out at once!”

  For his part the duke seemed just as startled as she was and his eyes immediately fixed on a point somewhere above her left shoulder. “I – I was, um…That is to say I was, er…you’re naked.”

  It was the first time she’d ever heard him stutter. Awkwardly draping one arm across her chest and flattening the other over her stomach, she crossed her legs and glared. “Thank you for pointing out the obvious! Now would you please leave?”

  “Yes…ah…all right.” But no sooner had he walked out of the room than he turned around and walked right back in. “Why weren’t you at dinner?”

  “I – what?” This time it was Eleanor who found herself at a loss for words.

  “Dinner,” he repeated. “You weren’t there.” His gaze dropped to her face then down to her breasts where it lingered for the span of a heartbeat before quickly returning to her pink countenance. A muscle ticked high in his right cheek. “I thought I made it very clear in the foyer that I wished for you to join me for dinner.”

  “I wasn’t hungry.”

  “Regardless of whether you were hungry or not, when I give you a command I expect it to be followed,” he said imperiously.

  “A command?” Her eyebrows shot up. “You do not command me. I am your wife, not a dog.”

  Derek started to say something, but seemed to change his mind at the least second. Instead he lowered his head and, pinching the bridge of his nose, drew a deep breath. When he looked up again his expression was calm, but Eleanor still detected a hint of glittering temper in the depths of his gaze. “From now on, I should very much like if we dined together.”

  “Why?” she asked suspiciously. First he’d shown up out of the clear blue after nearly a year gone by without so much as a letter to inquire as to how she was faring, and now he wanted to dine with her? Her husband was clearly up to something.

  “Why?” he repeated. “Because, as you yourself just said, you are my wife. I would like the opportunity to get to know you better.” A smile lifted one side of his mouth. It was a very handsome smile. A very charming smile. The sort of smile a man might give to the woman he was courting in the hopes of winning her favor.

  Definitely up to something, Eleanor decided.

  “This wasn’t a marriage either one of us planned,” he continued. “But that does not mean we have to be enemies.”

  She shifted her weight as her foot began to tingle. “I don’t think of us as enemies.”

  “But do you think of us as friends? I thought not,” he said when she pressed her lips together. “I’d like us to start over, if we could. Forget the circumstances that brought us here, and go forward with a fresh slate. I’m extending an olive branch, Eleanor. And I would like very much if you’d take it.”

  She had never been very fond of olives. Too bitter for her taste. But if Derek really was making a genuine effort to improve their tumultuous relationship, then she could try to do the same. After all, it wasn’t as if she enjoyed fighting with him. Well, at least not all the time.

  “Very well,” she said, giving the tiniest of nods.

  “Excellent.” He started to walk towards her, but at her wary frown he stopped short and lifted an innocent brow. “What? A man cannot kiss his wi
fe goodnight?”

  Her grip on the wrap tightened. “I thought you just wanted to have dinner together. You did not say anything about kissing.”

  “We are married,” he reasoned. “I thought it was a forgone conclusion that we would kiss at some point.” Even white teeth flashed in a grin that could only be described as roguish. He raked a hand through his hair, drawing her gaze to his thick ebony locks. Almost absently she wondered what the silky tresses would feel like. Coarse, like the mane of a horse? Or smooth, like the downy fur of a rabbit?

  “I suppose one small kiss wouldn’t hurt anything,” she said reluctantly. “We have to start somewhere, don’t we?”

  “That we do.”

  She tensed when he crossed the room in three long, languid strides, but to her pleasant surprise his touch was surprisingly gentle when he wrapped his hand around the nape of her neck, his fingers tangling in the damp tendrils that had come undone from the twisted pile of curls atop her head.

  “Relax,” he said softly, his thumb gently massaging a knotted cord of muscle. He was standing so close she could smell the faintest hint of wine of his breath. Madeira, if she had to hazard a guess. A sweet red wine that went splendidly with dessert and the only spirit her mother had allowed her to drink at the dinner table. “There’s no reason to be frightened.”

  “I’m n-not frightened.” It was a lie. If she’d been wearing boots she would have been quaking in them. It wasn’t that she was scared of Derek, per say. He may have been an arrogant cad prone to flashes of temper, but he wasn’t violent. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her, or force himself upon her. So why were her knees trembling? And why did her belly feel as though she was in a coach that had just taken a very sharp turn downhill?

  The kissing, she decided. It had to be the kissing. Having never done it before, she didn’t have the slightest idea what to expect. Was she supposed to close her eyes? What did she do with her hands? Should she purse her lips like a fish, or pinch them closed? For a woman who was accustomed to being knowledgeable on a vast array of subjects, from Greek mythology to astronomy and everything in between, the idea of not knowing how something worked was incredibly daunting.

  “I – I’ve changed my mind,” she said nervously. “I don’t think–”

  But it was too late. The hand at the back of her neck tightened ever-so-slightly as Derek lowered his head and kissed her. His mouth was warm and dry. She could taste the wine on his lips – she’d been right, it was Madeira – and she couldn’t help but wonder if he tasted what she’d had for dinner. It wasn’t the most romantic thought, but then no one had ever accused Eleanor of being a romantic. An academic, yes. A bluestocking, certainly. But a romantic? No. Never that.

  Yet she couldn’t help but feel a bit of romance blossoming within her as Derek deepened the kiss. His eyes were closed so she closed hers as well, and when he wrapped his arm around the small of her back and drew her against the hard length of his body she tentatively splayed her hands across his chest.

  She felt more than heard his sharp intake of breath at her innocent touch, and she marveled that such a small motion could cause such a large reaction. Then she felt his tongue lightly slide across the seam of her lips and it was her turn to gasp, for surely this was not how kissing was done.

  “It’s all right,” he murmured huskily. “I just want to taste you. Just a taste…”

  Her stomach fluttered at his words and after a moment’s hesitation she parted her lips, welcoming his tongue into her mouth on a soft, wondering sigh.

  Oh yes, she thought dazedly. This is how kissing is done.

  To her embarrassment – and secret delight – she felt her nipples harden against his chest. If his low growl of approval was any indication he’d felt them as well, and she was glad they’d both decided to close their eyes so he couldn’t see the bright pink blush unraveling across her cheeks. The blush traveled all the way down to her collarbones when, without so much as an, ‘I’m going to kiss your ear now and you’d best prepare yourself for it’s going to set your blood on fire’ he did precisely that.

  Her eyes shot open as his teeth scraped against her earlobe. She clung to him, latching onto his waistcoat for dear life as her legs threatened to give out. When he teased his tongue along the delicate shell of her ear she would have collapsed if not for the arm he had wrapped around her back. He held her upright, which was a very good thing for she felt as if her entire body had suddenly turned to a bowl of orange jelly. Goodness! All these years she’d thought her ears were only for hearing. If she’d known the truth, she might have been tempted to investigate this kissing business much earlier.

  Derek’s mouth slid down to her neck where it pressed against her fluttering pulse before returning to her lips. A few more slow, leisurely thrusts of his tongue and then, to Eleanor’s great disappointment, it was all over.

  “That’s it?” she asked, her forehead creasing in a frown.

  “No.” Brandy eyes dark and heavy, Derek tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear before he stepped back. “That wasn’t even a scratch on the surface, Red.”

  “Then why did you stop?” And why was she filled with a vague ache, as if she’d left something undone? The feeling was an uncomfortable one, and with a grimace she tried to ease it by pressing her thighs together. Seeing the tiny, nearly imperceptible movement her husband’s gaze grew hot, but he didn’t kiss her again. Instead he took another step back, and then another until he was standing in front of the door

  “Because I can’t trust myself.” His tone was almost accusatory, as if he was blaming her for…well, come to think of it she hadn’t the vaguest idea. Had she done something wrong? She knew she wasn’t an expert kisser by any means – how could she be, having never done it before? – but he hadn’t seemed displeased.

  She bit her bottom lip, drawing the swollen flesh between her teeth to worry it back and forth as a dog might a bone. For some reason that seemed to make Derek even angrier, for with a sharp curse he abruptly turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, leaving her staring after him in complete bewilderment.

  Chapter Nine

  What the devil had just happened?

  Massaging his temples where a dull throbbing had settled in – while simultaneously trying to ignore the other dull throbbing between his legs – Derek entered the library and threw himself down into a chair to stare broodingly at the smoldering fire.

  With the exception of his own thoughts and the crackle and hiss of the flames, the house was quiet, the servants having long ago found their beds. They would be up before the sun rose to attend the hearths, open the drapes, make breakfast. Under their care – and the sharp eye of Mrs. Gibbons – Hawkridge Castle ran like a well-oiled machine, which was precisely how he liked it. When he woke in the morning there were never any surprises. He always knew just what to expect.

  He knew there would be a warm basin of water already filled so he could shave his face (he preferred to do it himself rather than relying on a personal valet). He knew as soon as he came downstairs a piping hot cup of coffee, two poached eggs, and the newest edition of The Morning Post would be awaiting him in the solarium. He knew his riding clothes would be laid out on the bed when he returned upstairs to dress, and he knew his horse would be waiting for him, already tacked, in front of the stables.

  His house in London ran in a similar fashion. Having started his life in one direction only to have it veer dramatically off course when his parents died, he was a man who enjoyed order. Who liked knowing what was going to come next. Who did not care for surprises. Which was why his little red-haired wife, with her sharp tongue and quick wit and guileless green eyes a man could lose himself in if he wasn’t careful, had thrown him so utterly and completely off guard.

  Consummate the marriage and get the hell out of this Godforsaken castle where painful memories were as plentiful as rocks. That was his plan. Or at least, that had been his plan before he’d kissed her.

  Eleanor was an inconven
ience. A means to an end. A way for him to continue his neat, orderly life while still meeting the terms of the will. So why had he just been one second removed from losing all self-control, throwing his virgin wife onto the bed, and rutting into her like a savage?

  He knew what lust felt like. He was more than well acquainted with passion. But what he’d just experienced upstairs…it was unlike anything he’d ever known. It had been more than lust. More than passion.

  One glancing kiss. That was all he had intended. But from the first moment he first tasted the sweet honey of her lips he’d wanted more. He’d craved more. And he didn’t know why.

  Eleanor was by no means experienced. He wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised to learn that was her very first kiss. Yet despite her innocence, she’d entranced him like no other woman before her. Bracing his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward and buried his head in his hands. It just didn’t make any bloody sense. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to desire his own wife.

  No, not desire, he corrected himself grimly. Desire was too weak of a word. Yearning came close, but it was still insufficient. There was no word in the English language to describe what he’d felt. The power of it. The thrall. The ache. All of his mistresses combined had never made him feel even an ounce of whatever the hell it was he’d felt with Eleanor. And that was the bloody point. He didn’t want to feel. Feeling led to emotions, emotions led to disorder, disorder led to chaos.

  Sitting back, he cupped the nape of his neck and directed his brooding stare back into the flames. All this, he thought with a bitter twist of his lips, and all he’d done was kiss her. What the devil would happen when he actually bedded her?

  “Derek? Are you in here?” Georgiana’s lilting voice pierced the silence, followed by the rhythmic swish of her skirts as she strolled into the library and discovered him sitting in front of the fire. “Sitting by yourself in the dark without a glass of brandy?” She made a tsking sound under her breath. “It must be serious. Care if I join you?”