The Reluctant Duchess Page 9

  Turning a corner, she saw ahead of her Mr. Winters himself and one of the maids. Immediately, Rebecca sensed something was wrong, for the maid’s head was down, her body stiff, and Mr. Winters appeared to be chastising her about something. While she watched, Mr. Winters pinched the girl hard enough to make her let out a sound, and Rebecca’s blood turned hot.

  “What is wrong, Mr. Winters?” she asked, finding small satisfaction when Mr. Winters whirled around in surprise before quickly composing himself.

  “I ask very little of the staff, Your Grace, and when one member takes it upon herself to disregard my instructions, I find it unpleasant.”

  “What terrible thing did Sally do?” The girl lifted her head, clearly surprised that Rebecca recalled her name. Though Rebecca had not been formally introduced to the staff, she’d made a point of learning the names of those she saw or interacted with. Sally was the little maid who cleaned out her hearth.

  Mr. Winters pulled out a piece of wood from his inside jacket pocket, and Rebecca would swear Sally flinched. It was a ruler. “Vases are to be six inches from the edge. Not four. Not seven. One vase is to be on the left, one precisely in the middle, and one on the right. Symmetry is pleasing to the eye, Your Grace.”

  Rebecca could feel her cheeks heating. She had rearranged the vases herself, making a small arrangement on the side table in her boredom. Symmetry, obviously, had not been pleasing to her. She hadn’t thought such a small change would bother anyone and she certainly would never have touched the vases if she’d known one of the staff would be punished.

  “I’m afraid I rearranged the vases to my liking,” Rebecca said, trying to remove any sense of apology from her tone.

  Mr. Winters’s expression tightened subtly. “I suppose that is to be expected,” he said enigmatically. “In a household such as this—” He slapped the ruler onto the table, making Rebecca and the maid jump, and placed the vase six inches from the edge. “—symmetry is preferred.”

  Sally stared wide-eyed, looking from one to the other, as still as a deer in the forest confronted by a hunter. Rebecca forced a smile, though her heart beat rapidly and her skin felt hot. “This is my household, Mr. Winters. And while I would never question your sense of decoration, for everyone has their own opinions, I prefer the arrangement I made.” She couldn’t help but wonder if she sounded like a duchess or a frightened girl.

  Mr. Winters froze, his hand about to place the second vase down precisely in the center and six inches from the edge. He turned his head slightly, just enough so that he was not in full profile. “You are dismissed, miss,” he said with lethal softness. Sally darted her a frightened look, then hurried away.

  When Sally was gone, Mr. Winters faced her fully and Rebecca had to fight the urge to follow the maid. Instead, she schooled her features and prayed she didn’t look as frightened as she felt. He stared at her a long moment with hooded eyes, long enough that Rebecca nearly lost her composure. It would have been far easier to let the man have his way, but something inside her, that stubborn part that loathed backing down whether she was right or not, kept her in place.

  “You really are a fool,” he said with contempt. “His Grace does not like change. He cannot tolerate it. If you think you are going to come into this house and exert your influence, you are mistaken. The damage you can do here is insurmountable and I will not allow you to destroy his world. Have a care, little girl.”

  Rebecca had never hated another person in her life, but she found she was beginning to hate this man. “If I see you abusing another servant, I will make certain you have no contact and no influence over the staff. The staff is the purview of the butler and housekeeper. Not some unwanted distant relation.” His mouth tightened and Rebecca felt a surge of triumph. “His Grace trusts you, yes, but do not underestimate me, sir. I am not easily frightened nor easily discouraged.” The impact of her words was perhaps slightly diminished by the trembling in her voice and Rebecca prayed Winters thought it was anger and not terror causing it.

  With that, Mr. Winters placed the final vase six inches from the farthest edge, bowed and left without saying another word. When he was gone, Rebecca sagged and fought the terrible urge to weep. Something about his emotionless, dead stare frightened her to her core.

  This could not continue. Surely Oliver should have some inkling of what a tyrant Mr. Winters was, and if he did not, she would happily enlighten him. A bit of anger toward the duke flared, for it was unfair that she’d had to face Mr. Winters on her own. When they spoke this evening, she planned to tell him he needed to help her deal with Winters.

  By the time she reached her rooms, Rebecca’s nerves had settled down, but when she opened her door, they immediately went all a-jumble. Her room was dark, the curtains pulled, and she could see the barest shadow of a man standing by her bed.

  Chapter 6

  “Who is there?”

  Rebecca hadn’t realized just how rattled she was from her encounter with Mr. Winters until she spoke. Her voice trembled and she sounded on the verge of tears.

  “I am sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Oliver. The relief she felt made her sag, and she closed her door. Had she truly thought Mr. Winters had somehow made it to her room before she had simply to terrorize her?

  “I thought… It is not important.”

  She sensed rather than saw him step toward her. “What happened? Something has upset you.”

  All the stories, all the fear and doubt she felt, seemed to disappear. This man was not cruel or a monster. She could hear the real concern in his voice, which made all the tall tales she’d heard even more ridiculous.

  “I know Mr. Winters is dear to you, but I find him loathsome.” To her horror, she felt hot tears press against her eyes. She disliked feeling such animosity toward another and it was not in her nature to complain, but it was all too much for her to take.

  “What has he done?” His voice was nearer still, low and somehow soothing. In the last two nights, they had become friends of sorts, and Rebecca felt the urge to fall into his arms for comfort. She nearly laughed, thinking about how her imagination had run wild after her visit to the garden. The gardener had frightened her more than she’d realized. Now, though, Oliver was acting as a husband should, and that thought made her want to cry even more for some reason.

  “It’s more of what he says than anything. Or perhaps the way he says it. He holds me in contempt. He believes I am unworthy of you.”

  A long silence, as if he were carefully considering each word. “He has said that?”

  Rebecca thought back to the carriage ride, to Mr. Winters staring at her with his cold, brown eyes. Your very existence repulses me. He’d said nothing directly insulting to her since, so Rebecca decided not to tattle like a child. “Not in so many words. He called me a fool for thinking I could exert change in this household.”

  “Did he? I fear he will be proven wrong,” Oliver said, and Rebecca smiled, feeling as if she had a bit of a champion in her husband.

  “I found him chastising a maid about the position of some vases on a table. He pinched her hard enough for the girl to let out a yelp.” Rebecca sighed. “It seems like such a small thing now. He has a way of looking at a person that makes one feel small.”

  Two large, warm hands touched her shoulders, making Rebecca stiffen slightly. He dropped his hands immediately. “No, it’s all right,” she said. “I was startled.”

  “I should not have been waiting for you. I’ve upset you.”

  “No. But I do wish you would enter a room like a normal person by knocking.”

  “I do not need to knock to gain entrance,” he said, sounding rather ducal. “But I also do not wish to frighten you.” He sighed. “I shall knock next time.”

  Rebecca smiled. “It would be nice of you.”

  He chuckled, as if the idea of his being nice amused him. “If I am to be perfectly hones
t, I was growing impatient.” He put his hands on her shoulders, this time drawing her close to him. “You have bedeviled me, duchess. I have thought of nothing else all day but you.” She felt his lips on her cheek and she wondered if he’d missed his intended target. But no, he kissed her jaw, her neck, her chin, making her giggle.

  “Have you forgotten where my lips are?”

  “I am searching, madam.” He kissed the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, and Rebecca laughed.

  “Here,” she said, putting her hands on either side of his face and slowly drawing him to her mouth. She kissed him, a brief, almost chaste kiss, but he would have none of that. With a low groan, he pressed his lips against hers, then licked at the seam of her mouth, silently requesting entrance.

  How odd it was that just three days ago, she had been terrified. But now, she welcomed his kiss, relished it.

  “Can I tell you something?” he asked, feathering kisses along her jaw. “You must promise not to laugh.”

  “I cannot make such a promise, sir. What if what you tell me is amusing?”

  “You must not,” he said, this time his tone almost angry.

  Rebecca stilled. “Then I will not.”

  He sighed, then kissed her again. “You are the first woman I have ever kissed.”

  “But…”

  “But?”

  “But you are rather good at it, sir. I may not have a vast amount of experience, but I can tell that you seem to be well-versed.”

  He chuckled. “I believe I need practice, in spite of your praise. I find I rather enjoy the activity. Among other things.”

  And so he kissed her, as if they had all night—which they did—taking his time, exploring, soft and hard and drugging. After a time, when Rebecca’s knees were weak and her entire body felt as if it were burning, he stopped, his breath harsh. His hands had not wandered, he had not pressed himself against her, but rather made love to her mouth with his. Just those kisses had Rebecca wanting to crawl out of her skin—or at least her clothes—and beg him to kiss her everywhere.

  “Are you still tender from our first night?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so.”

  “Then please do undress. I’m about mad from wanting you and unless you want a madman in your bedroom, we should make haste.”

  Rebecca laughed until a rather disturbing thought occurred to her. That morning, Darlene had pulled a dress from her wardrobe that required no assistance to put on. Or off. That had not been the case the two days prior. The fire had not been stoked and allowed to die. She realized, with burning embarrassment, that the servants were aware her husband would be visiting her this night long before she was.

  “Your Grace, did you instruct my maid which dress to pull out this morning?”

  “I have little direct interaction with the servants,” he said, but Rebecca thought she detected a bit of caution in his tone, as if he knew she was displeased. And, she noted, he did not directly answer her question.

  “Who would have told Darlene to pick out a dress that I could easily remove by myself? Who would have told the footman not to keep my fire lit?”

  “You are angry.”

  “Not yet.” He was silent. “Mr. Winters then.”

  “Mr. Winters deals with the servants, yes.”

  “Everyone in this household except for me knew you would be coming to my room this night. Is that what you are saying?”

  “You make it sound nefarious when I was simply giving instructions so that I might spend time with my wife,” he said, and Rebecca didn’t miss his defensive tone.

  “Do you not think it odd that I am the last to know when you will be in my bed? Why did you not simply tell me and let me plan accordingly?”

  “I—”

  “Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is? Mr. Winters knew you would be sharing my bed this evening. God. Mr. Winters!”

  “You need to get over this enmity toward Mr. Winters.”

  Rebecca gasped. “And you need to leave, sir.”

  “You wish me to leave?” he asked, sounding incredulous. “I am your husband. I have thought of nothing else this day but taking you to bed and I planned accordingly. Your dislike of Mr. Winters is causing you to act irrationally.”

  Anger, hot and swift, made her blood boil. “This has nothing to do with Mr. Winters and everything to do with my insufferable, inconsiderate, and scheming husband.” She spun around and stepped away from him, wrapping her arms around herself. It was cold and she had no fire and she wished her husband to perdition.

  “So I shall leave?”

  “Yes. Please do.”

  She could sense him standing there, no doubt fuming at the turn of events. “Very well, Your Grace.”

  Rebecca didn’t let the tears come until she heard the soft click of the adjoining door.

  Of all the… How dare she refuse him? Who cared what the servants knew? What did she suppose they thought was going on between them at night? He ached for her, he was still hard, still mad from needing her, but he found himself alone in his room with an angry wife on the other side of a closed door. She was being irrational. And cruel. Yes, it was cruel to leave him in such a state when he had been all that was kind to her. He could have demanded his husbandly rights every day had he wished. But no, he had been considerate of her feelings. And this was his reward? To be rejected so blatantly?

  He paced in his room, silently railing against his wife, before leaving, slamming the door with satisfying force and heading directly to Mr. Winters’ room. Winters answered the knock at his door almost immediately and was obviously dressed for bed. Oliver didn’t care.

  “A match, if you will,” he said, then turned about and headed directly to the ballroom, where he donned his fencing garb. His eyesight was poor even when he did not have his mask on, and it was worse with it. Over the years, he’d mastered the art of predicting what his opponent would do. When he was younger, he’d had a fencing instructor who excelled at the sport. Mr. Winters was a challenging opponent, but had slowed down a bit in recent years. Ideally, Oliver would have liked to face an expert who would push him beyond his abilities. He wanted to sweat and make his muscles scream.

  God, he still ached for her. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Rebecca making love to her was all he could think of that day. He’d worked in his studio for long hours, trying to stop himself from thinking of her, to stop his body from wanting her.

  Before Winters entered the ballroom, he’d donned his uniform and practiced his thrusts on a hay-stuffed dummy that he practiced with when no one was available. “Bloody idiot,” he said, thrusting his rapier into the dummy.

  “I don’t believe he can hear you,” Mr. Winters said dryly from the door.

  “Sod off, Winters.”

  “Shouldn’t you be making sweet love with your wife, Your Grace?”

  Oliver turned, swiping his sword so it produced a whistling sound as it cut through the air. “You should take care, Mr. Winters. I am in no mood for your wit.”

  With a beleaguered sigh, Winters went to the equipment and donned his fencing clothes. “You do have your tip on, I hope,” he said, as if Oliver might actually skewer him.

  “I do. En garde.”

  Winters was a worthy opponent for perhaps the first two minutes, then the older man began to visibly tire. He tried valiantly to defend against Oliver’s onslaught, but it soon became apparent the match was one sided. Oliver scored point after point until Winters was spent, bent over, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath.

  Instead of feeling sympathy for the older man, as he usually did, Oliver felt nothing but impatience—and was then disturbed by his thoughts. He’d never questioned Winters and yet just five days after Rebecca had entered his life, he was beginning to wonder whether Winters had been given too much power within Horncliffe’s walls. Now that he cou
ld think with something other than his cock, he realized he was a cad and had quite possibly irreparably damaged his fragile friendship with his new wife.

  Still catching his breath, Winters said, “Not quite as good as a swive, but it’ll do for now, eh, Your Grace?” He chuckled, and Oliver looked at him with distaste.

  “Do not speak so, Mr. Winters. I warn you, my hold on my temper is a fragile thing.”

  Winters looked up as if surprised by the harshness of his words. Then he smiled and shook his head. “I thought it would take longer than five days for her to set you against me. I have to give Her Grace credit.”

  “You know nothing of which you speak. No one has turned me against you, sir, but I am beginning to believe I have removed myself too far from the happenings in this house. It is high time I began to act like the man my father hoped I would become.”

  Winters straightened slowly, his expression growing cold. “You bend so quickly,” he said softly. “I am disappointed.” He gave Oliver a thoughtful look. “Good evening, Your Grace.”

  At one time in his life, Oliver would have run after the man and apologized. His old friend was correct, however. Something had shifted in his life since Rebecca had come to Horncliffe. For the first time in his memory, he felt the weight of responsibility for another person. It occurred to him, with shocking awareness, that as duke he should have felt such weight long before now. The servants, his properties, his tenants—everyone tied to the Kendal title was his responsibility. Of course, he’d always known this on some level, but it had been so much easier to allow Mr. Winters, who seemed to manage everything so deftly, to carry on.

  “It is high time I began to act like the man my father hoped I would become.”

  Those words, spoken aloud, pierced him. What would his father think of him now, a man who lived in fear, who hid away each day and created a world of fantasy? Still, the thought of going out in the world, of suffering the stares, the whispers. How could he?

  “Courage,” he whispered. It all came down to that, didn’t it? He walked to a mirror at the end of the room and stared at himself for a long moment. He did not look into mirrors often for it was difficult to view his reflection without wanting to bash his head against the glass. This time, he looked, long and hard, until his throat ached and his eyes burned. Any courage he had leeched from his body, leaving him desolate. “Stupid fool.” He watched his mouth move as he spoke and imagined someone else had uttered those words. That thing in the mirror could not be him, yet it was. Courage.