The Reluctant Duchess Read online

  “Sally, could you please find Darlene? And someone who can repair my bell pull? I yanked it clear off last night.”

  Sally quickly gathered up her things, including a bucket of coal that looked far too heavy for her to carry, and, after another quick curtsy, left Rebecca alone. The sunlight beckoned her, and Rebecca threw off the covers and ran to the window, curious about what the estate looked like in the daylight. Pushing aside the curtains, Rebecca gasped at the sight before her.

  A large lawn stretched to a thick forest, that now was brilliant with the colors of fall, and a small lake sparkled, its surface dotted with water fowl. In the distance, the glimmer of the sea made her smile. She hadn’t realized Horncliffe was so close to the shore and it made her feel a bit closer to St. Ives. If she wanted to go home, all she had to do was walk along the sea until she reached St. Ives. It was a silly thought, but comforting just the same. She hadn’t known anything about this place, not how cold it would be, nor how beautiful and different from her home.

  With a sharp pang, Rebecca realized she had no one to share the view with. Her sisters would have delighted in it, would have run down the stairs and ruined their shoes on the wet grass just to dip their toes into lake. No doubt, the water was icy cold this far north, and Rebecca wondered if anyone ever swam in it. If she were home, Eliza would have been at her door, begging to go for a walk. Alice would have bundled up her little baby and let her play in the colorful leaves that covered the lawn.

  “Stop it,” Rebecca said aloud. No good came from feeling sorry for oneself. And what did she have to feel sorry about? That she was a duchess and living in a mansion with a household of servants who were willing to do her bidding? Most women would give anything to be in her position. Well, perhaps not married to a man the servants and villagers feared, one who refused to show himself, who lived in shadows because…because of something horrible.

  The knot in her stomach that had begun to unfurl tightened once again.

  Bundled up and wearing her oldest boots, Rebecca headed outside to explore the grounds. She hadn’t counted on air so cold it stole her breath and made her teeth hurt when she smiled. The wind went right through the wool coat she wore, a coat that had been more than adequate on the coldest days in St. Ives. Still, she was a hearty soul and refused to allow a bit of cold air to push her back into the house.

  As she neared the edge of the forest, leaves rustled beneath her feet with each step she took, a comforting, familiar sound that only made her homesick. No one was about and the world was silent; not even a bird sang and Rebecca suppressed a shudder that had little to do with the cold.

  Looking back at the house, she frowned. Rebecca had hoped Horncliffe would seem more inviting in the daylight, but if anything, it was even more formidable. The roof was all angles, with windows and dormers, towers and peaks, created without a thought to symmetry or beauty. The dark stone and mullioned windows, all covered with heavy drapes, did little to make the mansion more inviting. A madman might have designed it, so incongruous were its angles. Her gaze went from one end to the other, stopping at a gargoyle guarding a tower room, and she let out a giggle. A gargoyle? Poor fellow was alone in his vigil, and Rebecca wondered if there had once been a pair of them glaring down at whomever should dare approach. A slight movement brought her eyes to the window in the tower, but she saw nothing except the dark drapes. Was the duke up there looking down at her? She was too far away to see. Mr. Starke had mentioned that the duke spent much of his time in the tower. Or was it Mr. Winters? With that thought, she turned away, pressing down the sudden apprehension that threatened to ruin her day.

  The forest was thick and dark, the sort Little Red Riding Hood would have skipped through, unaware of a lurking wolf. Were there wolves at Horncliffe? Or other creatures that could harm her? Something rustled in the brush, and, with her heart beating hard in her chest, Rebecca turned away from the woods, scaring herself into thinking something—or someone—was watching her. What silliness. Honestly, she must learn to temper her imagination. But walking toward the house did little to stem her fears, for the mansion loomed large and threatening, as if it were warning all to stay away. It was easy to understand why the locals were so afraid of the place, for it was a rather frightening vision and Rebecca couldn’t imagine who would have designed such an ugly thing.

  “You don’t frighten me,” she whispered, her eyes narrowed in an attempt to find a bit of bravery.

  With determined steps, she walked around the entire manse, marveling at the ugliness of it, so unlike anything she’d ever seen. It was as if whoever created it had done so on purpose to repel. Hardly was there a straight wall, but rather false entries, doors and porticos and angles that made little sense. The grass around the building was well-kept, but she saw no whimsy, no beauty, no organized garden. Perhaps this house needed a woman to plant some flowers to soften the look of the dark stone.

  The west side wall was nearly covered with ivy that climbed to the roof, the vines crawling into every nook, even covering one of the windows entirely. Suppressing a shiver, Rebecca backed away, as if the ivy was somehow malevolent. She laughed at her silliness, knowing she was allowing Darlene’s words the previous evening to influence how she felt about the place. It was stone and wood, nothing more. A house could not be menacing, and ivy was lovely. Still, in the spring, she thought she might direct the gardener to remove it.

  Despite the unusual architecture of the place, by the time she reached the front again, she’d begun to feel sorry for the house. Rebecca tended to do that, give human emotions to inanimate objects, something that made throwing anything away difficult.

  “You need me,” she said to the great house. As silly as it sounded, she felt it was true. “You ugly old thing, all you need is someone to love you.” She let out a laugh, amused by her thoughts, but not enough to discard them entirely.

  After going inside, her cheeks pink from the cold and near freezing to the touch, she headed to her rooms to write home. She would write to her sisters about the grounds, about the house, and her journey, but she hadn’t any idea what she could say about her new husband. They were, she had little doubt, anxious to hear whether he was ugly or handsome. To their naïve minds, all dukes must be handsome. How could she tell them when she still didn’t know? She realized she would have to write a vague description that would not hint at the strangeness of her marriage thus far.

  She pulled out the rosewood writing desk her father had given her as a wedding present, moving her hands over the smooth surface before opening it up to the felt-covered interior. It had been his mother’s and she knew how much it meant to him, for no one had been allowed to touch it. She’d cried when her father had given it to her, knowing it was his way of saying how much he would miss her, how sorry he was for his mistakes. Inside was a pen and ink pot, several pieces of expensive paper, and a wax and seal—everything she would need to stay in touch with everyone she was missing. She couldn’t tell anyone the full truth; they would worry too much. After sitting at her desk, staring at a blank bit of paper for several minutes, she gave up, leaving the letter-writing to another day.

  She was waiting for him in the dark, likely fearful. Or angry. Oliver liked her anger far better than her fear. Her maid had tapped on his door not ten minutes prior to tell him Her Grace was prepared. The larger question—was he prepared?

  He was certainly physically prepared, he thought with chagrin, his cock already standing at half mast at just the idea of some relief. It had been more than three years since Winters had brought him a girl, an event that had filled him with such shame and self-loathing, he’d asked that no more be brought. She had been willing, yes, but she’d had a strange odor about her and had talked during the entire event about her husband of all things. She’d lifted her skirts and spread her legs. “Come on now, Yer Grace, let’s get this done, now. I’ve got supper to make.”

  While his body had been sated, h
is mind had been completely repulsed by the idea of bedding another woman he had to pay, and one with a husband waiting at home. He couldn’t bear to think of another woman even though his needs grew each day; it was humiliating.

  “Never again,” he’d told Winters, who had given him an odd smile, one tinged with disbelief.

  “Was she not to your liking, Your Grace? I can find a better one next time. I did not realize she was married. Entirely unsuitable.”

  Oliver never asked for Winters to bring him a woman; they just appeared, all willing enough. Still, the arrangement left him feeling unsettled.

  Rebecca was likely a virgin, and he wasn’t certain he was glad of it or not. Some primal element inside him was fiercely glad, but he was still bloody uncomfortable with the idea. He prayed she knew a bit of what was to come. Hell, he hardly knew. Winters, seemingly amused by his ignorance in such matters, had told him virgins experienced some pain and bled their first time, an idea that was horrifying to Oliver. How was he to know such things, having spent most of his life within these walls? The only things he knew of the outside world he found in books, and books hardly discussed deflowering virgins.

  All day, she had invaded his thoughts; his mood had been mercurial, veering from stark fear to giddy anticipation. That morning, he’d watched her outside even though the light had hurt his eyes. At that distance, she was nothing more than a blur to him, but he knew it was she. Who else would be taking a stroll around the grounds, who else had such vivid auburn hair? At that moment, he wished he were a normal man, the sort who could have courted her, could have joined her on her walk.

  Tonight, in the dark, he could be a normal man, lie with his wife and make her forever his. If she would have him. No matter what Winters said, he would not force her.

  With a sigh, he opened the door that connected their suites and walked in, swallowing any uncertainty he felt. “Good evening, Rebecca.”

  “Good evening, Your Grace.” Her voice was smooth and strong, and he could detect no hint of unease.

  He began walking toward the bed, only to smack his shin on some piece of furniture that should not be in his path.

  “My apologies, Your Grace, I hadn’t thought to move the ottoman.” Did he detect laughter in her voice? Had she purposely placed obstacles in his path? It was nearly a certainty that she had, he realized when he slammed into a chair not a moment later.

  “I am wholly amused,” he said, without even the hint of amusement in his voice. His shin hurt like the devil.

  “There is only one more,” she said, and this time he could clearly hear the laughter in her voice. Despite himself, he smiled, though he was glad it was dark and she could not see it. By now, his eyes had adjusted enough so that he could discern the vaguest shadows, and he easily side-stepped her obstruction.

  “You are in the bed?” he asked.

  “I am not.”

  He closed his eyes, dreading that this was going to be battle. “Please get in the bed, madam. I promise I will not harm you.”

  “I fully intend to fulfill my wifely duties,” she said, and this time her voice was not so strong. “But I should like to touch you first. If that would be permissible.” This last was said in a rush, as if she feared angering him.

  “You wish to touch me?” He ought to do a jig and shout out that of course she could touch him. Whatever was he here for if not that? But something in her voice told him she was far more frightened than she was letting on. He could only imagine the stories she had heard about him from the servants. She would likely touch his teeth to make certain he had no fangs.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  He had not anticipated such a request. He’d imagined her lying on the bed, fists clenched, while he touched her. “Very well. I am at the end of the bed, near the post.”

  He heard the faint sound of her bare feet on the carpet, her soft breath, the rustling of her nightdress, and then he caught the subtle scent of lavender and he smiled. “Did you enjoy your bath?”

  She gasped. “You… How did you know I bathed?”

  “I can smell the lavender.” He let out a low chuckle. “I assure you I was not spying on you.”

  “I did enjoy my bath, Your Grace. I believe it is my favorite part of Horncliffe.” She stood there before him, silently, for a space of three breaths; it seemed like an eternity. “I am going to touch you now.”

  “Very well.” He closed his eyes even though he could hardly see her, only the slightest of shadowy outlines, and then he felt the warm pressure of her hand on one shoulder and he had to stop himself from inhaling harshly. It was a simple touch, nothing more, but his body was alive and straining and all he could do was fist his hands and close his eyes and try to maintain some sort of control. She smelled so damn good. Too good, and he cursed himself for providing her such sweet-smelling soap, a scent that would linger, that would forever remind him of this moment. Her hand rested on one shoulder, tentative, and all he could think of was that he wanted her to touch his flesh, to warm his skin. “Shall I take off my banyan?”

  A small hesitation. “If you like.”

  In one fluid motion, it was off and on the floor, leaving him naked in front of her. “You may touch me again now.”

  She let out a small sound, a little laugh, and he found her ability to find amusement in what was likely a highly unusual moment for her, rather admirable. “Very well,” she said, echoing his earlier words.

  Again he felt her hand on his shoulder and was unable to stop his shaking breath. How could she know what this was like for him, a man who had never been voluntarily touched by a woman in his life. The others had been paid, and it was entirely different. This woman was his wife. It was a bit miraculous.

  Her fingertips feathered up his shoulder to his neck, to be joined by her other hand in exploring his face, and he gripped the bedpost hard to keep from moving, to keep from sinking to the floor. His jaw, his nose, his brow, and then his hair, light touches that were serving to make him mad with lust. His member was fully erect and when her nightdress brushed against him, the slight touch nearly made his knees buckle. She ran her fingers through his hair, up and around to the back of his neck, then down to his chest.

  “My God,” he whispered, when her fingertips grazed his nipples. He shuddered beneath her hands, then finally clasped them in his own, stopping her movement. Her wrists felt impossibly delicate beneath his hands and he immediately loosened his grip.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “I want to be gentle with you. I don’t believe you realize what your touch does to me. This is your first time?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you continue to touch me, I shall lose the small amount of control I have and I fear I will not be as gentle nor as considerate as I should be.”

  Rebecca laughed. “That is not what I meant, Your Grace. I do understand men a bit.” Now, that was a lie, given she’d grown up in a household of mostly females. But she had three married friends who had hinted at what occurred between a man and a woman. She rested her hands on his chest, her fingertips on the curve of his clavicles, and his large hands held her wrists lightly. She could feel his chest moving in time with his breaths, strong and sure and slightly accelerated.

  “I…I don’t understand why you will not allow me to see you. You are not fat or bald or an ogre.” She let out a small laugh. “You are an ordinary man.” In fact, he seemed more of a man than many she’d seen. He was tall, sturdy, muscled. He had no lumps or bumps or scars that she could feel. He was strong and lean, the angles of his face chiseled.

  “You know nothing.” Anger edged his words, and Rebecca felt a small fissure of fear. She knew nothing of this man, after all. He sighed, and she felt his breath on the top of her head. “Now, may I touch you?”

  “I supposed it’s only fair.” She said the words lightly, but her stomach clenched. This was it.
She was about to bed a stranger, allow him all sorts of liberties, allow him to touch her where no one had before. The urge to run was almost overwhelming, but she stood her ground. She was this man’s wife.

  His hands touched either side of her neck, then moved up into her hair. “Ever since I saw the painting of you, I have wanted to touch your hair,” he whispered. “It is far softer than I imagined.” He drew her to him and kissed her softly on her forehead, an oddly tender caress and one that made her smile. She’d feared he would make her get on the bed and spread her legs, then have his way with her. His hands still in her hair, fingers moving restlessly against her scalp, he kissed her cheeks, first one, then the other, the way she’d seen Frenchmen do when greeting a friend.

  And then, he pressed his lips, firm yet soft, against her mouth, before laying his forehead against hers, his breath harsh. “Will you remove your nightdress?”

  No no no. “Yes. Of course, Your Grace.”

  “Oliver.”

  “Oliver.” With hands shaking from the cold or from pure nervousness, she pulled at the bow at her throat, then undid the buttons, one by one, until she could shrug the garment off. It fell to the ground with a little thump that sounded overloud in the darkness. When he laid his hands on her shoulders, she shivered.

  “Are you frightened or cold?” he asked.

  “Perhaps a bit of both.”

  “I am sorry we cannot have a fire this night. As soon as we are done, I shall ring for a footman to light one for you. Get into bed, then, and under the covers with you.”

  For a moment, Rebecca thought it was over, that he would leave, and she wasn’t certain whether she was relieved or frightened when she felt him get into bed next to her, under the covers. He lay there for a long minute, close enough for her to feel his body heat, but not close enough to touch. Then, she felt him kiss her shoulder, then a large, warm hand just beneath her breast. She was so taut, so nervous, she could hardly breathe, and she willed herself to relax.