The Summer Duke (A Duke for All Seasons Book 3)

by Jillian Eaton

  “Regina isn’t pretty, she’s damn well beautiful,” Andrew snapped.

  Byron rubbed his chin where a beard had been growing ever since the Season ended. It made him appear even more menacing than usual, which was most likely why he had it. There were no lengths to which Byron wouldn’t go to ensure his privacy. A difficult thing to maintain when one was a duke. “Then what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is that regardless of what my wife looks like, I didn’t want to get married in the first place!” Andrew slammed his chalice down. Dark red port spilled over the curved brim and splashed onto the chair. Scowling, he blotted at the stain with the sleeve of his jacket. “I’ll have it replaced.”

  “Don’t worry about the furniture,” said Byron with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m more concerned about the port. Do you any idea how bloody expensive that bottle was?”

  “I’ll buy you another.” Drumming his fingers on the armrest, Andrew turned his sights to the window. Outside the clear glass pane the sun was just beginning to set, turning the sky a dusky gold and marking the end of another day. His ninety-second as a married man. Except he didn’t feel married. How could he, when he’d spent less than an hour with his wife before sending her away to the country while he’d remained in London? Bloody hell, they hadn’t even consummated the damn thing. Which, he supposed at the time, had kept it from being real. The forced proposal. The whirlwind engagement. The unwanted wedding.

  But now that they were married, their lack of intimacy only made the entire messy ordeal feel unfinished. Like a hastily scribbled sentence that had been left without a punctuation mark. One he had no damn idea how to add after the fact.

  Was it any wonder, then, that he’d spent more time in Wakefield’s company than he had in his wife’s? Byron wasn’t exactly the most amicable of hosts, but at least Andrew knew what to expect. With Regina he had no bloody idea. Ninety-two days married, and she remained as much a mystery to him as the first night they’d met. A veritable stranger that shared his name but not his bed. Except that wasn’t completely true, was it? Regina may have been an enigma – what sort of debutante brought a book to ball? – but there were parts of her he was already intimately acquainted with.

  Her wit, for one.

  And her mouth for another.

  “Why did you do it?” Byron asked.

  Frowning, Andrew drank what remained of his port. “Why did I do what?”

  “Marry her? We’re dukes. If there’s one advantage we have, aside from ridiculous wealth and unwanted popularity, it’s that we can do whatever we damn well please. I understand not wanting to ruin the chit’s reputation, but there were other ways you could have dealt with the situation aside from marriage.”

  Byron was the only person he’d revealed the real circumstances under which he and Regina became engaged. The rest of the ton, including Lady Emmeline, believed he really had proposed on the night of the ball. They hadn’t the faintest idea Regina had been the one to do the proposing, and that she’d lied through her teeth in order to do so, a slight that still rankled three months later.

  He knew she hadn’t meant to do it on purpose. Trap him into marriage. Some women might have. Some women had. Or at least they’d tried. But unless Regina was a consummate actress who belonged on stage, the surprise on her face when she’d told Lady Emmeline they were engaged had been as genuine as his own.

  She’d been trying to save herself and her family from vicious slander and speculation at the hands of one of London’s worst gossips. He couldn’t fault her for it. And he couldn’t have left her to pick up the shattered pieces of her reputation on her own. But a hook was a hook, and it didn’t sting the fish’s lip any less just because it had been caught accidentally.

  “I married her because it was the right thing to do.” He stood up and returned to the bar, but instead of reaching for the port he poured himself a glass of chilled lemon water. After four days and nights of drinking himself into oblivion he was finally ready for a clear head. Even if that meant accepting the fact that he really was married. A tiny fact he’d been doing his best to erase with Wakefield’s best brandy.

  “You could have arranged for her to marry someone else,” Byron pointed out as Andrew turned to face him. “A generous enough contribution to her dowry and any manner of acceptable gentlemen would have been fighting for her hand.”

  Over my damned body, he thought silently.

  Regina may not have been his first choice for a wife (or the second, or third, or fourteenth), but that didn’t mean he wanted some other bloke to have her. It was a convoluted affair, made increasingly difficult by the undeniable fact that the longer he stayed away from his new bride the more he desired her.

  He gritted his teeth. This was precisely why he’d wanted to eventually marry someone like Lady Emmeline.

  Eventually being the first key word.

  Emmeline the second.

  Cold down to her marrow, Emmeline – and those like her – had never aroused anything more than a passing interest. Certainly he’d never been tempted to kiss her, nor had he ever wondered what her skin would taste like. But that was what would have made her so bloody perfect. Because he wouldn’t have wondered. He wouldn’t have cared. And not caring was a hell of a lot better than this tangled web of emotions he found himself unwillingly caught in.

  “I kissed her.” A muscle pulsed in his jaw. “She’s my responsibility. No one else’s.”

  Byron shrugged. “Suit yourself. I, for one, think you’re a bloody idiot.”

  “I’ll remember that for when you find yourself shackled.”

  “Never going to happen,” Byron said mildly.

  “It will if you want an heir.”

  “I have an heir. A cousin, twice removed. Nice fellow. Lives with his family in Aberdeen. A wife, two young sons. When the devil takes me he’ll find himself the unlikely recipient of my title, along with all of the lands and fortune that comes with it.”

  “You’d leave everything to a twice removed cousin?”

  “Happily.”

  Andrew’s eyebrows rose. “You hate marriage that much?”

  “No,” Byron corrected, cool blue eyes taking on a hard glint. “I hate my father that much. The bastard may be dead, but if there’s one thing I can do to get him to roll over in his grave it’s ensure the direct family bloodline ends with me.”

  It was only the second time in the twelve years they’d known each other that Byron had mentioned the late Duke of Wakefield, but Andrew knew their relationship had been tumultuous from the marks he’d once glimpsed on his friend’s back after they’d returned to school. Marks that had been put there by a cane. He also knew better than to delve into deep waters, and when Byron reached for an entire jug of rum he took it as his cue to finally leave.

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said, pulling on his tailcoat. He absently rubbed his face and winced when he felt the thick layer of bristle covering his chin. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d grown anything resembling a beard, but then personal hygiene hadn’t exactly been high on his list of priorities over the past week. A glance at the mirror hanging above the bar and his suspicions were confirmed: he looked like absolute shite. Fitting, given that he felt like absolute shite.

  A soak in a hot bath and his personal valet, a Frenchman who knew his way around a straight razor better than anyone Andrew had ever met, would clean up his exterior quickly enough. A clean cravat could go a long way towards making a man feel like himself again. As to his interior…well, that was a different story all together.

  Byron took a deep chug of rum, then swiped his hand over his mouth. “Bed your wife, plant a son in her belly, and send her off to your estate in Northumberland. The one with all the sheep. Then find yourself a mistress. Bugger it, find two.” Another swig of rum. “It’s not complicated, Glenmoore.”

  No, it wasn’t complicated. Or at least, it shouldn’t have been complicated. If he’d married a woman like Lady Emmeline h
e would have already down exactly what Byron was suggesting. But he hadn’t married Emmeline. He’d married Regina.

  And that changed everything.

  Chapter Five

  Regina did not know when she was expecting her wayward husband to return, but it wasn’t that evening for dinner, which was most likely why she bobbled her fork when he strolled unannounced into the room. As if in slow motion she watched in dismay as the small piece of pork drizzled in white mushroom sauce she’d been about to eat sailed through the the air before landing with great aplomb on Andrew’s right shoulder.

  “Oh my goodness,” she cried, dropping her fork with a clatter as she sprang up from the table and hurried over to him, linen in hand. Dabbing at his coat she tried to wipe off the splotch of sauce staining the navy blue fabric, but the more she dabbed the larger the spot seemed to grow until he suddenly caught her wrist and pulled her hand back.

  “It’s fine,” he said gruffly.

  “I really didn’t mean to–”

  “It’s fine.” His thumb settled at the base of her wrist here her pulse beat wildly. “It’s only a piece of clothing. I’ll have one of the footmen fetch another.” A subtle jerk of his head and that was exactly what happened. Within moments Andrew’s soiled tailcoat had been exchanged for a clean one and he took his seat at the head of the table after accompanying Regina back to her chair.

  Well that went swimmingly, she thought. Lips pursed she nudged her plate away, having lost her appetite for pork. From across the table Kitty, who had watched the entire exchange with wide eyes, met Regina’s gaze and gave a small, encouraging smile. Regina took a deep breath.

  “Your Grace,” she began, relying on the words she and Kitty had practiced just this morning, “you are looking most handsome tonight.”

  According to Kitty, men liked nothing more than to be complimented.

  They want us women to believe we’re the vain ones, she’d said with an arched brow. But in truth they’d stand all day in a mirror if they could get away with it. Give a man a compliment and he’ll give you his attention in return. Every lady knows that.

  Regina hadn’t known that, but then that was why she had brought Kitty here. To keep her company, to lift her spirits, and to guide her in the mysterious art of man wooing.

  “Thank you,” said Andrew, his spoon pausing in midair. “You are looking well yourself.”

  Well? He thought she looked well? Regina hadn’t wanted to wear the green satin gown with the low cut bodice to dinner but Kitty had insisted.

  Men love to stare at a woman’s breasts, she’d revealed as she shuffled through Regina’s new wardrobe, discarding any dress with a high neckline. You have a lovely bosom, Gina, but you hide it behind all of these hideous tunics. I won’t even give them the courtesy of calling them gowns. A potato sack would give you more shape.

  Unbeknownst to Regina she must have had quite a large collection of potatoes sitting somewhere, because Kitty removed nearly every single dress she’d brought with her from London until only her new wardrobe remained. But Andrew must not have been as moved by her lovely bosom as Kitty claimed he would be, because he hardly gave her a second glance.

  From the other side of the table she could feel Kitty staring at her, and she struggled to think of the third thing her friend had told her. She thought it might have been related to hats – or was it horses? – but she couldn’t remember, which was why she said the first thing that came to her mind.

  “Where have you been?” she asked with unintended bluntness. If Kitty’s sharp gasp was any indication, inquiring as to the whereabouts of one’s husband was not the third thing (it was hats, she remembered now), but Regina stood by her question if only because she wanted an answer. Unfortunately, Andrew was not forthcoming with one.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, lifting his head. “I wasn’t listening. What did you say?” For the first time he seemed to notice Kitty. “And who is this?”

  “Gina,” hissed Kitty, “don’t you dare–”

  “This is my childhood friend, Lady Katherine Bainbridge. You would know who she was if you cared to know anything about me at all, which it is clear you do not.” She angled her chin as anger she hadn’t even known she’d been harboring rose to the surface. “As to what I said, I inquired as to your whereabouts these last three months.”

  “Good Lord,” Kitty muttered under her breath.

  Andrew carefully set down his spoon and placed his hands flat on ivory cloth draped over the table. When his eyes met hers they were noticeably colder than they’d been a few moments ago, and even though they sat on opposite ends of the room Regina felt the frosty bite of his words all the way down the length of the table. “If I do not know personal details of your life, perhaps it is because we were acquainted less than an hour before your – I’m sorry, my – proposal. It was mine, wasn’t it? Maybe you could enlighten me once more as to how it came to be we found ourselves engaged on the same evening we met.”

  Regina met his gaze levelly. “Do you want me to apologize again?”

  “I don’t want anything from you,” he sneered. “Except to stop asking questions that are none of your business. It’s no concern of yours where I’ve been. You are my wife, not my keeper, and so long as you are my wife you’d do best not to pry into private matters.”

  “Then you do plan to annul the marriage.” After the way he’d just spoken to her Regina didn’t know why that should send a stabbing pain through her chest, but then matters of the heart rarely made sense. “May I ask on what grounds?”

  “I’m just going to – ah – excuse myself. Pardon me.” With a sympathetic glance at Regina, Kitty fled the room. The two servants who had been standing by the side table waiting to clear the main course discreetly exited as well, leaving the duke and duchess alone, glaring daggers at each other from opposite ends of the room.

  “There will be no annulment,” he stated, and the knot that had tightened in her belly loosened with relief. “We are married, and short of death nothing is going to change that. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly.” What she didn’t understand was how they were supposed to overcome the wall between them. One that seemed to grow higher with every passing day. Surely he didn’t expect this to be their marriage.

  Spending more time apart than together. Arguing across the dinner table. Exchanging insults and accusations. Regina sighed. She didn’t want to fight. It wasn’t in her nature, or at least it hadn’t been in her nature before she became a duchess. It seemed she and Andrew tended to bring out the worst in each other. But if they could bring out the worst then surely, surely they could reach deep down inside of themselves and bring out the best.

  After all, it’s what Lizzy Bennet would have done.

  “What are you doing?” Andrew asked warily when she stood up and made her way towards him. He stood as well, the legs of his chair scraping on the hardwood floor. Regina stopped at the edge of the table, her hip pressing into the rigid corner. Hoping to bring an end to the animosity simmering in the air she addressed her husband with a tentative smile he did not return.

  “I did not want to shout across the room,” she explained. “With a table as large as this it seems rather foolish to be so far apart, does it not?”

  “I suppose we could sit closer together,” he said gruffly.

  “That would be nice.” Her smile widened as she attempted to coax a similar expression from his guarded countenance, but he remained unmoved. Her smile fading, she racked her mind for common ground upon which they might start to build a more secure stone foundation for a relationship that had been hastily erected on a rapidly crumbling pile of sticks. “Do you like hats?”

  “Hats?” he repeated, his brow furrowing.

  “Yes. I find them quite useful myself, but I do wonder if they aren’t a tad overdone. It seems there is a hat for every occasion now. Breakfast hats, tea hats, hats for riding and hats for mourning. Hats for spinsters and hats for babies.”

  Was tha
t the hint of a smile she saw crinkling the corners of his eyes?

  “You seem to have given this a lot of thought.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve had a lot of time to think.” The moment she said the words aloud she wished she could snatch them back, for Andrew’s gaze, which had begun to warm, abruptly chilled.

  “You’re not a prisoner here,” he said, jaw clenching. “You can come and go as you please.”

  “I didn’t mean…” She trailed off. Shook her head. “I do not wish to argue with you.”

  “And I did not wish to get married, yet here we are.” He crossed his arms and Regina released a frustrated hiss of breath.

  “I am sorry you seem to find being married to me so abhorrent, but you didn’t have to do it, you know. You could have easily told Lady Emmeline the truth, then you wouldn’t be married and I would be–”

  “Ruined,” he interrupted flatly. “You’d be ruined, and your sisters would be ruined, it would be my fault for making the regrettable error of kissing a wallflower in a library. I do not like to make mistakes, Regina. And when I do I make certain to fix them.”

  “That’s what I am, then?” A lump filled the back of her throat. “A mistake?”

  He looked at her oddly. “What else would you be?”

  “Oh.” Even on his worst day Mr. Darcy wouldn’t have been this cruel. Dashing her hands beneath her eyes to catch the tears that welled before they could fall, she pushed past her husband and ran from the room.

  Andrew cursed.

  He’d handled that badly. He knew it even before Regina’s beautiful green eyes glimmered with tears.

  Bloody hell.

  What sort of bastard told his wife she was a mistake? Mouth twisting in self-disgust, he stalked to his study and slammed the door with enough force that the sound of it reverberated all the way down the hallway. Fingers clenching in his hair, he sat behind his desk, tipped back his chair, and stared up at the ceiling, unable to evict Regina’s stricken expression from his mind.