Marriage Deal with the Devilish Duke

by Millie Adams

  ‘I would like to avoid being killed by Hugh, and if I had wanted to be killed by him, I would have simply refused to marry you in the first place.’

  ‘So there are all these rules of society, and half of the people in society simply do not observe them? Tell me, where is the logic in that?’

  ‘I suppose this,’ he said, looking around, ‘is what separates us from the animals.’

  ‘That and corsets, I imagine.’

  ‘Definitely corsets.’

  ‘I had hoped to find, when I grew up, when I married, that the world was perhaps not so mystifying and unfair. That things were not quite so inequitable between men and women. I had hoped, that there would be a magical moment when all knowledge, and all things, might be open to me. But it is not to be, is it? I will always be... I will always have to live my life half in fantasy. And not even a good fantasy, because I don’t even know...’ She looked up at him, her blue eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘I do not even know what I want. All these desires with you and me will be half formed. Except for that one moment. That one moment in the garden.’

  She went away from him then, and knelt down beside William. Who began to speak to her in an animated fashion.

  And he felt...

  He felt perhaps like being a duke was pointless. Because with his status and power, he was unable to give Beatrice what she wanted without breaking his vows to Hugh, and William...

  Well, none of it bore thinking about, really. He had never been the kind of man to rail at fate. The world did not care. It simply unfolded, one step at a time, and you had to take it. Or die.

  As his wife had chosen to do.

  No. Serena was not his wife. Beatrice was his wife.

  Beatrice was his wife, and that bore thinking about.

  Chapter Twelve

  On the second day in London, Beatrice had walked William endlessly around the little cluster of townhomes around Grosvenor Square. They had gone out to tea on the third day, though it was unfashionable to bring a child to such a venue.

  He had not lasted long. He had become fractious and it had still been worth it, if only because they had left with cloth bags filled with scones.

  Which she and William had elected to eat on the floor in his nursery.

  Then she had gone to her bedchamber, to allow herself to be dressed to attend her very first ball as an actual lady.

  Where she would dance.

  But she would only be able to dance with Briggs, as he was her husband.

  The partners did switch during many dances.

  She had wanted this...

  She had wanted it for a very long time.

  All of her clothing fit perfectly, her measurements having gone to London ahead of her, the power of Briggs’s fortune and status evident in each stitch of her clothing. The gown her lady’s maid put her in was gold, with glittering beads stitched over a long, filmy skirt. The bodice was low-cut, with shimmering stars sewn around the neckline. Similar stars were fastened to her hair, which was arranged in beautiful, elaborate twists.

  She felt beautiful. Truly beautiful. More so than she ever had in her life, with the exception of when Briggs had held her in his arms in the garden when her hair had been down in the simple braid, her body adorned in very little, and she had felt...

  She had never thought about her own beauty. At first, she had always harboured anger against her body. For being weak. For failing her, and she had never much considered whether or not it was pleasing to look at. It just pleased her in its weakness, and that was what mattered. When she had found her secret strengths, the ways in which she endured pain...

  She had begun to praise her body, for being stronger than all of the illnesses that had attempted to claim her.

  A matter of perspective, she supposed. In the same way that being bled could have been nothing but an unendurable pain. She had allowed it to become something else. But this... This hurt, and not in a way that made her feel strong. Her throat ached as she stared at her reflection.

  She was beautiful, and it did not matter. For she had a husband, and there would be no man that would look upon her and fall desperately in love. Least of all the man who had married her.

  Briggs.

  Her breath caught, sharp and hard, and she turned away from her reflection.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said to her lady’s maid. ‘I am ready.’

  A beautiful, crimson-red pelisse was draped over her shoulders, and she walked out through the door of her bedchamber, at the same time Briggs walked out of his.

  He was stunning. In black as ever, with breeches that moulded in a tantalising fashion to his body. She had so many more questions about that body than she had before. And such a great interest in what she might find beneath his clothes.

  There was an intensity to his gaze when he looked at her, but just as quickly as she’d seen it, it vanished. Replaced by the cool detachment he preferred to treat her with.

  ‘You are ready,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘A good observation, though I suppose I should be grateful that you did not ask if I was ready, which would imply that perhaps I did not appear to be so.’

  ‘You appear more than ready to steal all of the attention at the ball.’

  ‘How lovely for me. And what shall I do with the attention?’

  ‘Allow yourself to bathe in the envy of others,’ he said, his voice low, and rich. Rolling over her skin. ‘For how often does one get to be the fixation of every man in a room, and the focal point of the fury of every woman?’

  ‘I can say certainly that I have never.’

  She felt as if he had just given her a compliment, but she also felt like she was trembling, so it was difficult to linger on the good feeling for too long.

  ‘But isn’t that just more fantasy? Imagining what it is others think?’

  ‘Do you have something against fantasy?’

  ‘Perhaps I am simply tired of it, because it is all I’ve ever had.’ She wasn’t hungry for more fantasy, she wanted real.

  She wanted more of those moments she’d had with him before. Real and raw. Pleasure and pain. Physical. Not gauzy, sweet dreams.

  But she did not know if he would ever touch her like that again.

  It made her despair. She didn’t want despair, not tonight.

  She didn’t want to dwell on what could be, or what might not be.

  She wanted to live.

  They made their way out of the house and down to the carriage. He, rather than his footman, opened the door for her. When they were ensconced inside, she felt as if all the air had been taken from her lungs. Being this close to him was... It was difficult. It created a tangle of desires inside her, and she felt beset by them.

  ‘When I was a girl, all I could do was dream.’

  ‘Tonight is not a dream,’ he said. ‘Tonight is very real.’

  ‘You will dance with me?’

  ‘I will share a dance with you.’

  ‘No,’ she said, firm. ‘I have dreamt of this all of my life. I wanted to go to a ball and have a handsome man see me from across the room and know that his life would never be complete if he did not cross that space and take me into his arms. I will never have that. I have known that for a time now. I knew it even when I thought I was contriving to set myself up to marry James. I have had to let that go. But I ask you... I beg you... Please, give me this. If you can give me nothing else.’

  She felt vaguely foolish, begging like this. But this was her life, her life. And everyone around her was making these decisions for her and she had tried to claim her freedom, and she had not been successful.

  So if she had to beg to get what she wanted tonight, then she would.

  ‘As many dances as you wish,’ he said, his voice rough. And it sent a thrill through her body.

  It was as if he ca
red.

  And that made her hope.

  * * *

  When they arrived, they were swept into a glittering ballroom, replete with frescoes of cherubs, not half so lovely as the ones at Maynard Park. Nor as scandalous as the ones at Bybee House.

  But they were nice all the same.

  It was a thrill, to be in a new place, a new ballroom. To be at a party with different people.

  And to actually be part of it, rather than standing on the fringes. It had not been long ago that she had been at her brother’s house party and got herself ruined. And she did wonder how her reception might be.

  It turned out, there was no need for worry. Briggs was ushered immediately into a group of men, and Beatrice was summarily captured by their wives.

  ‘I did not think that he would ever marry,’ said a woman who was introduced to Beatrice as Lady Smythe.

  ‘No, assuredly not,’ said Lady Hannibal. ‘He had confirmed bachelor neatly stamped across him.’

  ‘Well. Circumstances...’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said the Viscountess Roxbury. ‘We heard all about the circumstances.’

  And Beatrice awaited the judgement.

  ‘Clever girl,’ the Viscountess said. ‘It was the only way one could ever snag him. To catch him in such a fashion, particularly when he holds your brother in such esteem.’

  And she had the feeling that she had been talked about, at length by this group of women, as she suddenly realised that the banter that went around the circle felt a bit rehearsed.

  Still, she did not get the sense that they wished her ill, nor that they disliked her, only that they were fascinated by her.

  ‘Well, I... I have known Briggs for a very long time.’ She realised that she had referred to him by his rather familiar nickname, and that she ought not to have done so. Not in this group. ‘The Duke of Brigham,’ she said. ‘His Grace. I have known him for quite some time. And he is a man I hold in great regard.’

  ‘How can one not hold a man whose riding breeches fit him so in high regard?’ said Lady Smythe with a curve to her lips.

  Beatrice felt a rash of possessiveness. She did not appreciate the lady leering over her husband.

  Particularly as Beatrice herself had not seen him out of his breeches.

  The idea sent a slam of indignation and something else through her, and it made her feel warm all over.

  Still, she found a way to keep her smile pasted on her face, and then, mercifully, the topic of conversation turned to other gossip, and Beatrice found she quite enjoyed it. She felt very much a part of this group in a way she had never much felt a part of anything.

  It was a strange sort of revelation. She had not realised how much she wanted this. An evening of feeling enchanted. Of feeling... Normal.

  They did not know that her and Briggs’s marriage was not what it seemed.

  They were treating her like a married woman. Like someone for whom the mysteries of the universe had been unveiled.

  They were treating her like an equal, and not like a poor, sickly thing.

  And then it was time for a waltz, and Briggs turned, his dark eyes connecting with hers as he closed the distance between them. ‘If you’ll excuse us,’ he said to her new friends. ‘I owe my wife a dance.’ His eyes never left hers. ‘More than one.’

  A tremor went through her body, as he took her to the dance floor, and brought her into his arms. He had said he owed her a dance, but there was a promise beneath the words that felt heavy. That made her stomach go tight.

  It was a lively dance, and she could not help but laugh, in part because she had forced him to partake.

  And soon, he was laughing also. They spun and twirled across the floor, and she delighted in what a strong grip he had. And what a wonderful partner he was.

  Oh, he was wonderful.

  She studied the lines of his face, that square jaw, those dark eyes with long dark lashes.

  And his mouth. She had tasted that mouth. Had shared intimacies with him only three days earlier that she had never even imagined, much less shared with anyone else.

  And he’d felt hers.

  But suddenly, she had the thought. That there were other women here who had tasted him. Who had perhaps experienced greater intimacies with him than she had done.

  The very idea made her feel small. Ill. And terribly sad.

  But she would not focus on that, not now. For that was fantasy. That was speculation. What was real was this moment. Where he held her in his arms. And the music wound itself around them.

  A sweet, piercing melody that seemed made just for them.

  It did not matter that there were other people here. None of that mattered. He had wanted her to focus on what it was like to be the envy of others, but she found she did not care. She did not care. She only cared what was. What was happening. And what was happening was that she was being held by Briggs. What was happening was that she was so close to him her air was made up almost entirely of that spicy masculine scent that was him, and only him.

  She looked at the strong column of his throat, at his Adam’s apple there. And she became unbearably conscious of wanting to lick him.

  They danced together for longer than was fashionable. She was grateful for it. Because there was no other man she wanted.

  And that, she realised, was the real sadness. Not that the fantasy of meeting someone else was dashed forever. Had she ever truly wanted to meet someone else? No. The saddest thing was that she had married Briggs. And it was something that part of her... A small corner of herself that she would never have allowed voice... Had secretly dreamed could be true. Because from the first moment he had ever brought her sweets, she had found him to be special. And she had wanted him most of all.

  And there was not a fantasy left, because he was her husband, and yet she could still never truly have him.

  But tonight he’s dancing with you. Tonight you have this. You have lived in so many painful moments. Should you not fully live in this one?

  And so she did. She allowed the music, and his arms, and the steps, to become the only thing there was.

  * * *

  Briggs was overwhelmed by her. She was beautiful, and when she had removed her pelisse upon entry, she had revealed the extent of the gown’s secrets. He had wanted to kill the men he was speaking to, friends from school, for that matter, over the way they had allowed themselves to hungrily take their fill of her gloriously rounded bosom.

  He couldn’t blame them. He might’ve done the same had they possessed a wife of such great beauty. It was just that they did not. There was not a woman in the entire room that could hold a candle to Beatrice.

  And the way that her face lit up as they danced... It ignited something inside him.

  And he felt nothing but fury. At himself. At the world. But more than that, a fury at his own willingness to succumb to the helplessness of the situation. For he was not that man. It was certain he did not waste time railing at the world, but that did not mean giving in either.

  He wanted her. He wanted her.

  More than wanting to sink into her wet, willing body, though he did want that, he wanted her pleasure.

  And he wanted her submission.

  She had been made for him, as far as he could tell, nearly training herself in the art of pain all of her life.

  She understood it. She understood it in the way that he did.

  But there was an intense and rare gift to be found in the exchange of it.

  And she was correct. It was her life. It was her life, and she had every right to decide what she wished it to be.

  There would be nothing to stop her from taking her pleasure with other men, except that those men would not know how to satisfy her.

  He did. They were perversely, innately made for each other.

  And he wished to see just how far that w
ent.

  The only thing more unfashionable than dancing with one’s wife for the entire evening was to be seen sneaking out of the ballroom with her.

  But when that dance ended, he realised that it was the path he had decided on.

  ‘Let us take a walk,’ he said.

  ‘A walk?’

  He had this moment to turn back. But she was here, and she wanted to be his. He felt it. He knew it. She had said it with her mouth, had shown him with the way her body desired him and if he found her strong, and wild, and brilliant, ought he not also to believe her?

  He knew there was a chance it was his weakness, his selfishness winning out. Remnants of the boy he’d once been, who had wanted nothing more than to meet a woman who might understand him.

  That did not exist, that love he had once believed in. He was no longer naive enough to believe one person might accept all the ways in which he was different.

  But Beatrice wanted this part of him. And so he would give it.

  He was powerless to do anything else.

  ‘Into the garden.’

  ‘Is there a garden?’

  ‘There always is,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ she answered. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Without a garden, there would be no garden path for rakes to lead innocent women down, would there?’

  ‘Hugh has warned Eleanor about such things.’

  ‘But never you?’

  She laughed, hard. ‘I think Hugh would never have thought he would have to.’

  ‘He should have. Perhaps you would’ve stayed clear of me.’

  ‘I did not know it was you.’

  ‘Did you?’ he whispered.

  She shivered beneath his hold. He had not meant to issue that challenge, but he had done so. ‘Walk with me.’

  They walked out through the large double doors and into the dark of night. The moon was only a silver sliver, and the stars were all alike, but none of them were as compelling as the ones in Beatrice’s hair.

  They had entranced him all evening. Beckoning him to unpin her curls and fill his hands with them. With all of her stardust and glory.