“Men are driven by two forces: lust and power. Marriage is the only polite institution which serves both purposes at once. Otherwise, I daresay, we would have a devil of a time dragging them to the altar.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Berne while discussing her son Charles’s intractable lack of interest in remarriage.
“Good God, man, put that thing away.”
Harrison glanced up from his watch and turned a raised brow to Henry Thorpe, the Earl of Dunston. Dust motes floated on the morning light streaming through the window of St. George’s, pluming around Dunston’s brown head. Having known the man since well before Oxford, Harrison was accustomed to his friend’s exasperation.
“It is three minutes later than the last time you looked. She will appear when she is ready. Have patience.”
“She is late,” Harrison replied flatly, closing the watch with a snap and sliding it back into his pocket.
Dunston sighed, his affable nature likely strained by the full twenty-minute delay of Harrison’s wedding. “Her mother and sisters are attending her. Ladies require ample time to prepare.”
“She was given ample time. Five weeks, to be precise. Any longer is simply petulance.”
Standing in the rear of the church, out of sight of those gathered in the oak pews, they spoke in hushed tones. Harrison had no desire to incite alarm.
“As usual, I’m afraid Lord Dunston has the superior argument, Harrison.”
He turned to see his sister strolling toward him. Having borne his nephew only eight weeks earlier, she looked remarkably healthy—glowing, in fact—in a gown of soft green silk trimmed with cream-colored lace. The tightness that had settled around his lungs eased a bit. “Victoria.”
When he had written to her of his decision to marry, she had insisted on traveling to London for the wedding, despite his specific instructions to remain in Derbyshire. Her husband had proven worthless in dissuading her, of course; Atherbourne was woefully besotted. If she but asked, he had little doubt the viscount would leap headfirst off the cliffs of Dover.
Giving Harrison a radiant smile, she tugged his black sleeve to straighten it, even though his valet made the gesture unnecessary. The servant was paid handsomely for his impeccable standards and skills. “Be patient, my darling brother. I am certain your bride simply wishes to look her best.”
“My patience is not at issue. The wedding was scheduled for nine. It is now”—he pulled his watch from his pocket, noting Dunston’s exaggerated, eye-rolling sigh—“twenty-five past.”
Victoria’s hand, which had settled gently on his arm, gave him a small pat. “Why don’t I go and see if I may hasten her arrival, shall I?” She said it in the tone one would use on an unreasoning infant.
“Yes!” Dunston answered before Harrison could reply. “Thank you, Lady Atherbourne. That is the ideal solution.”
She grinned at the earl and gave Harrison’s arm another pat. “Don’t worry so.” Reaching up to stroke the space above the bridge of his nose, she teased, “You’re developing a crease.”
After she left, Dunston remarked, “Your sister appears well.”
“She is.”
“Interesting.”
Harrison shot him a questioning look, which Dunston answered with a shrug. “Considering you killed Atherbourne’s brother in a duel, and that he later blamed you for that death as well as the death of his sister, I would not have predicted their marriage would go on quite so happily.”
His voice was flat when he replied, “The matter has been settled. As you well know.” Dunston also knew Harrison did not like to discuss the atrocious dawn when he had shot Gregory Wyatt, killing a good man and setting into motion the vicious scandal that had torn Victoria’s life asunder.
“Yes. You and Atherbourne are civil now; it is true. But that is precisely my point. Marriage is unpredictable. Love is unpredictable.”
“Rubbish.”
“Which part?”
“Marriage is entirely predictable. It is designed to be so. The husband protects and provides for the wife, who then sees to his comfort and bears his children. A simple agreement.”
Dunston’s forehead dropped into his fingers, which rubbed as if he had a megrim. “You honestly believe it is no more complicated than that, don’t you?”
Raising a brow at his friend’s clear vexation, Harrison replied, “Of course.”
Dunston sighed, shook his head, and let his hands fall to his sides. “Grant me one promise.”
“Yes?”
“Never say such a thing to your wife.”
Harrison scowled and opened his mouth to argue, but Dunston clapped him on the shoulder and paced away toward the large column where the pews began. He returned with a report. “The guests are a trifle restless. Why did you invite so many? When my cousin married, I counted myself fortunate merely to have been informed.”
“Lady Wallingham insisted. Claimed it was essential to our aims.”
“When did you begin taking direction from Lady Wallingham?”
Harrison’s glare communicated his displeasure without the need for words.
Minutes later—six minutes, to be precise—the sound of the church’s organ alerted them to his bride’s arrival. Finally, finally, this damnable wedding could begin.
*~*~*
Fifteen minutes earlier …
Huddled inside a small, white chamber of St. George’s, Jane was having a great deal of trouble breathing. A quiet knock at the door preceded her mother’s muffled, “Dearest? Your father would like to speak to you. Won’t you come out?”
She was not trying to be difficult. It was just that she worried about moving too far away from the chamber pot. “I am not feeling especially well, Mama.”
The next voice she heard was her father’s. “Poppet? You shan’t be alone. I will be with you every step.”
She squeezed her eyes closed, nearly crumpling at the quiet reassurance. “I know, Papa.” He would be there, his steadying arm holding her upright as she walked down the aisle to Blackmore. But who would be there for her when it was over? Who would hold her upright when the duke looked at his new duchess with pity and resentment?
Hearing whispers outside the door, she waited, perched on a small wooden chair, dressed in the magnificent bronze gown Mrs. Bowman had made, wondering when someone—anyone—would come to their senses. She glanced over at the chamber pot in the corner. There was nothing left in her stomach, but nausea still rolled through her like a storm.
Another gentle knock. “Jane?” This time, it was Victoria. “I am coming in.”
She would have protested, but Victoria gave her no chance. Her best friend’s golden-blond head peeked around the door before she finished speaking, followed by large, sweet, blue-green eyes. “Oh, Jane,” she sighed. “You look so very lovely.” Stepping fully into the small chamber, she closed the door and leaned back against it, her lips pursing in a sympathetic smile. “And so very miserable.”
“How did you do it?” Jane knew she was both pale and sickly, so she dismissed all but the last part of Victoria’s statement. What she needed now was advice on how to survive an unwanted wedding.
“My circumstances were a bit different. Lucien and I … well, let us say we were already acquainted well enough to know we would suit.”
“Still, it cannot have been easy for you.”
Victoria’s smile was gentle. “No. It was not. I’m afraid I have no secret knowledge to offer. This is simply one of those moments you must endure with as much dignity as you can manage.”
Jane grunted. “I feared you would say that.” Sighing deeply, she braced her palms on her knees and let her head fall forward. Soft rustling was followed by warm, gloved hands coming to rest over hers.
When she looked up, Victoria was kneeling before her. “He is a fine man, Jane. Loyal, honorable. Far kinder than he lets on.” At Jane’s dubious expression, she chuckled. “It’s true. I know he seems a bit stuffy—”
“He is the coldest man I have ever met. No, wait.” Jane paused, pretending to calculate all the men she had ever known in her head. “Yes, the very coldest. He disapproves of me to such an extent, I will be astonished if he does not employ a governess to instruct me on proper behavior.”
Shaking her head, Victoria asked, “Don’t you suppose there might be more to him than what he appears upon casual acquaintance?”
“No. And if there is, I have seen little evidence of it.”
Victoria’s mouth quirked. “Hmm. After the wedding, I daresay you will have ample opportunity to discover his more endearing qualities.”
Suddenly, Jane’s chest felt abnormally tight. She flipped her hands over so that they now grasped Victoria’s. “He and I are dreadfully mismatched, Victoria. Can you not see this?” The words felt pulled from her by force—the truth spoken plainly and urgently after being stifled for five weeks. “Everyone in this church, everyone in London, in England itself, understands. Why are you all behaving as if it is not the most laughable pairing ever to be suggested?”
“Jane,” she began soothingly.
“Please do not deny it. I cannot bear to hear you to lie to me.”
“I would not lie to you.”
“Then tell me, before this year, who did you imagine he would select as his duchess?”
“He had not yet begun the search for a w—”
“It was Lady Mary Thorpe, was it not? Dunston’s sister.”
The look on Victoria’s face spoke the truth.
“Precisely,” Jane confirmed for her. “With good reason! Even you thought it necessary to request that he grant me a waltz—something I still have not forgiven you for, incidentally.”
“Jane, I only meant—”
“Your pity was insulting, but it was not entirely unwarranted. I will make an appalling Duchess of Blackmore.”
“Oh, that is simply not—”
Jane released Victoria’s hands to enumerate her points on her fingers. “First, I am short.”
“You are only three inches shorter than I, and two shorter than Mary Thorpe.”
“Second, I am plump.”
“You are pleasantly rounded. Many men appreciate a shapely figure.”
“Third, I am shy.”
Victoria smiled. “You are not shy with me. Once you feel comfortable—”
“Fourth, I wear spectacles.”
“Well, you could remove them, I suppose, if they bother you so much.”
Jane stopped. “They do not bother me. I cannot see a whit without them. I am speaking of how others perceive me.”
Carefully, Victoria backed away, rose to her feet, and straightened her shoulders, her hands folded serenely at her midriff. “Stand,” she said firmly.
Jane blinked. It was not like Victoria to give orders. But Jane complied, rising obediently from her chair, partly because Victoria looked every inch the daughter of a duke, and partly because it seemed she would not speak until Jane did so.
“Now, will any of this nonsense alter what is to happen today?”
Jane hesitated before shaking her head.
“No,” Victoria confirmed softly. “After today, you shall be the Duchess of Blackmore. You. Not Mary Thorpe. Not anyone else. Whatever expectations others might have had are meaningless. The new Duchess of Blackmore is an intelligent, charming, shapely woman who wears spectacles and reads entirely too much.”
“Don’t forget short.”
“Your height does not signify.”
“It will when my husband resembles a tree standing beside a mushroom.”
“Jane.”
Jane sighed. “Very well. Perhaps you are right.”
“No ‘perhaps’ about it.” Victoria slowly grinned, then reached out and pinched Jane’s cheeks gently. “There, now. A little color. I am sorry I asked Harrison to dance with you. I did mean well, you know.”
“I know.”
“Are you ready to become my sister?”
Jane threw her arms around her best friend. They held each other tightly for long seconds before Jane whispered, “You know that is the only thing good to come out of this absurdity, don’t you?”
Victoria sniffed and then pulled back to cup Jane’s face between her palms. Her eyes were swimming with tears. “We have long been sisters of the heart, now we shall be in truth.”
With her thumb, Jane mopped the single drop that spilled down Victoria’s cheek and gave her a wry smile. “Is it producing an heir that turns you into a complete watering pot?”
Chuckling, Victoria shooed away her hands and took a deep breath. “Ready?”
“No.”
“Steady on, dear Jane. You are about to become a duchess. Best begin acting accordingly.” The falsely stern tone was lightened by Victoria’s playful smile, but Jane knew she was right. She must become a duchess—his duchess. And she could delay no longer.
Her stomach cramped, flopping painfully around inside her abdomen like a fish thrown onto a riverbank: out of its depth, struggling to breathe, instinctively knowing its place was elsewhere, but unable to do a thing about it.
“Very well,” Jane said hoarsely. She cleared her throat, straightened her spectacles with shaking hands, and put on the bravest face she could muster. “Fetch Papa. It is time to show the world what the new Duchess of Blackmore looks like.”
*~*~*
His bride wore a bronze gown overlaid with sheer gold that shimmered in the light from the church windows. She was far from a beauty—“plain” suited her perfectly. But the gown was flawlessly formed, drawing the eye to her ample bosom, then down to her newly discovered waist, where a dark-bronze sash cinched becomingly.
Harrison scowled. Perhaps this explained the extravagant bill he had received from Bowman’s on Bond Street.
His eyes traveled upward to her face. She was pale. Jane’s eyes were not on him, but darting fretfully from her bouquet of ivory roses to the guests in the pews. Lord Berne had his hand over hers on his arm, but she still lagged slightly behind her father, as if he was dragging her forward against a current.
Finally, her dark eyes met Harrison’s. She walked into a shaft of sunlight and halted for the briefest moment. The reflection of light on her spectacles flashed before she moved forward again; after that, she did not look away from him.
“Dearly beloved …” He heard every word of the ceremony, spoke his vows, knelt when asked. But all the while, his focus remained on her. Jane.
Her voice had the faintest rasp. It was something he had noticed at Lady Gilforth’s ball, though at the time, he’d been more vexed with her than intrigued. As he listened to that voice promise to love, cherish, and—most especially—obey him, a sensation ran from his scalp, over his skin, and down his spine. In the part of him no one knew, satisfaction thrummed and preened, unexpected and unwelcome.
It returned again as he slid his mother’s ring onto her finger. At last, after the third prayer for their fruitfulness, the priest ceased his droning and completed the ceremony. Harrison offered his arm to his wife. Despite severe efforts to squelch it, that fugitive satisfaction stole through him a third time. Now, it filled his entire body.
His wife. She was his wife.
Her hand slid inside his elbow, the touch light and cautious. The music of organ and choir resounded inside the cavernous church as they retreated down the aisle.
He should not be so pleased. She was far from beautiful, far from the elegant and dutiful bride he had long presumed he would choose when the time came—which had always been “later.” He frowned. Perhaps that was the reason for this puzzling gratification. He would no longer be forced to endure the marriage mart. Any gentleman with a title and fortune would be thankful to escape that madness.
Glancing down at her dark hair, parted in the center and gathered at the back of her head, graced with gold ribbon and creamy pearls, his frown deepened. Slowing as they reached the last column at the end of the pews, they stood together and waited for the parish clerk in the shadowed corner of the church.
She heaved a great sigh and glanced idly up at his face. Her brows lowered, and she blinked owlishly before dropping her gaze to his chin and muttering, “Do not scowl at me. This is your doing, not mine.”
And that’s when he knew. It was more than the relief of removing himself from the husband hunt. It was her. Jane. She was quite possibly the only woman who had ever challenged him so directly. She did not treat him like a duke. She treated him like a man, and one who vexed her as much as she did him. The thought of gaining control of her quenched a hidden need he rarely acknowledged, much less indulged.
He wanted to subdue her, bring her to heel. The impulse was base. Primitive. But as soon as it entered his mind, it burst outward from its source, rushing down his veins to effervesce beneath his skin. Feeling his groin tighten in anticipation, he clenched his jaw and pushed back against the unseemly instinct. He must not let the feeling linger. She’d married him for one reason: to secure her reputation. He had married her for one reason: to restore his family honor. Allowing their union to become anything more would be a dangerous mistake.
It was inappropriate to feel such things for his wife.
To imagine her kneeling before him.
To picture her surrendering to his pleasure and hers.
No, he must snuff out these primal urges like the brushfires they were.
Else watch as they both burned to a cinder.
*~*~*
In Jane’s experience, few problems could not be bettered with a good meal. Today was proving the exception. Her wedding breakfast had been an unmatched feast—Mama’s doing, of course. Salty, succulent ham, tender brioche, sweet plum tart, omelets delicately flavored with shallots and thyme, and a dizzying selection of other dishes, each more tempting than the last. By the time the wedding cake was presented, Jane feared she might burst.
But none of it lessened her misery. Nor, it seemed, had it comforted the Duke of Blackmore. Her husband. Blast, I will never grow accustomed to that. Even now, two hours on, he retained the same expression of strain and consternation she had witnessed just before the parish clerk had escorted them into a small office where they had signed the register, finalizing their ill-begotten union.
She sighed, sipping her coffee and eyeing the guests who milled about her family’s drawing room. They all appeared to be enjoying themselves more than she. Laughter and conversation created a general din that floated around and above her like mist over the moors.
In truth, she should be thankful to be seated on this small divan tucked away in an innocuous corner of the room. Sometimes it was pleasant to be ignored. The past two hours had been horrendous. All that smiling and nodding and “my lord”-ing. At one point, she’d feared her knees would buckle from the strain of curtsying, especially after the dratted priest had kept her and the duke in their kneeling position for nigh on a half-hour while he droned on and on and on, pleading to the Almighty for her fertility. Really. A simple prayer for a fruitful union was more than adequate. Three lengthy entreaties struck her as undignified.
Now that she thought about it, the chance to sit here and rest, drink her coffee relatively undisturbed, and have no one approach was quite nice.
A few feet away, Lady Wallingham loudly declared gold the ideal color for fashionable brides. The dowager wore a brilliant blue gown with a matching, plumed turban. Flamboyant, yet somehow always elegant, Lady Wallingham managed to be both outspoken and powerful. She was eccentric, yet widely accepted—even respected—by other matrons.
Jane straightened when a notion tickled the skirts of her mind. In the role of duchess, she was bound to fail spectacularly. Everyone knew this. But what if she became an eccentric? An Original, as it were—the duchess who loved books more than balls, the one who rarely spoke, rarely appeared in London, never hosted a single …
Her gaze snagged on her new husband’s golden-blond head, where he stood near the fireplace speaking with Lord Dunston. He looked forbidding. He looked like the Blackmore who would never countenance the indignity of an eccentric wife. She slumped as her small ray of hope died a premature death.
Jane’s mother pulled Lady Wallingham away, and a group of Annabelle’s friends sauntered by, ignoring Jane as usual. Behind them, another band of five young ladies gathered, their blond circle enclosing a familiar figure with lovely auburn hair. Jane stiffened as she recognized Lady Mary Thorpe, sister of Lord Dunston.
As Annabelle’s giggling crowd moved away, Jane could not help overhearing Mary’s friends discussing—of all things—Jane herself. “I was astonished, simply astonished!” whispered the spiteful Lady Phillipa Martin-Mace. “What could Blackmore have been thinking to wed an ugly, fat nothing like Plain Jane Huxley? A horrid choice, to be sure, but even worse when he could have offered for you, Mary.”
Jane winced, then quietly set her coffee on the low table in front of her, feeling a sudden return of her earlier nausea. Really, this was only to be expected. She should have been prepared. But to hear the truth so baldly stated felt like the sudden slash of a cold knife.
“Should have, you mean. She preyed upon his gentlemanly honor,” Adorra Spencer interjected, her abnormally large teeth making her diction less than crisp. “We all know Blackmore is obsessive about it. Otherwise, he doubtless would have offered for you this very season.”
The lightest blond of them all, Miss Cecilia Barkley, refused to be outdone. “He is rightfully yours, Mary dearest. You should have been the Duchess of Blackmore.”
A warm presence depressed the cushion next to Jane, drawing her attention away from the yellow-haired palace guard surrounding a demure, unprotesting Mary Thorpe.
“I wondered where you had disappeared to,” said Victoria casually. “Hiding in plain sight, I see.”
Jane’s gaze dropped to her hands, where it snagged on her wedding ring, a sizable emerald flanked by a dozen diamonds and wreathed in gold. It had belonged to his mother, the last Duchess of Blackmore. She twisted the thing a full revolution before consciously stopping and folding her hands. “From time to time, invisibility is beneficial.”
Victoria leaned closer, nudging Jane’s shoulder with her own. “Pay them no mind. Envy is the ugliest color in the palette. I am a painter. I should know.”
“Are they not correct?” Jane whispered. Before Victoria could answer, she continued, “Even I had heard he was on the verge of offering for Mary Thorpe before …” With a small motion, she gestured to her left hand. “… this happened. Perhaps she is right to feel betrayed.”
Victoria wasn’t having any of it. “By now, you know Harrison well enough to know this: If he had made promises to her, he would have kept them. He did not. And so if Mary now feels betrayed, that is the result of her own fancy.”
“Yes, but—”
“Jane, do you remember how Mary behaved toward me when my reputation was in tatters?”
She nodded. The cinnamon-haired girl and her gaggle of blonds had given Victoria the cut direct. Recalling the grief in Victoria’s eyes as Mary had led her group to cross Bond Street in an obvious attempt to avoid passing near Victoria, Jane felt a resurgence of the angry indignation she had experienced at the time.
“And do you suppose I would prefer to spend the next forty years exchanging pleasantries with someone I know to be, at best, inconstant? Or rather, would I prefer someone who has proven loyal and true?”
“Er—the second one?”
“Precisely.” Victoria gave a little shudder. “My nieces and nephews shall learn better character than that at their mother’s knee, thank God.”
It took Jane a moment to realize she was referring to Jane’s future children—with Blackmore. For which, it would be necessary to …
She felt a flush rise in her cheeks.
Oblivious to Jane’s inappropriate thoughts, Victoria concluded her supportive rant with, “However it came about, I am most grateful it is you who wears my mother’s ring.”
Jane met her friend’s eyes, knowing she meant every word. “Thank you,” she rasped.
Victoria squeezed her hand briefly. “This has been a difficult time, but you are not alone. If you should ever have need, come to Thornbridge.” A soft smile curved her mouth. “Oh, it is wonderful, Jane. You could stay for as long as you like. Lucien has so many books—”
“Perhaps she should get settled at Blackmore Hall before she takes up residence with you, dear sister.” The quiet, clipped voice drew their eyes swiftly up to Blackmore’s face. He did not look pleased.
Victoria gave him a brilliant smile, which he did not return. “I was simply inviting Jane for a visit. We are friends, you know.”
Ignoring her, Blackmore turned his iron gaze to Jane. “We should depart before the hour if we are to reach the inn by nightfall.”
Head swiveling in surprise, Victoria protested, “Harrison, you cannot possibly expect your bride to spend her wedding night traveling in a carriage.”
“No,” he said flatly. “We shall stay at the inn. I believe I said as much.”
Shooting Jane a look of sisterly exasperation, Victoria said, “I would attempt to reason with him, but once he is set on a course, nothing persuades him to abandon it.”
As they made their way upstairs to Jane’s bedchamber to prepare for her departure, Jane felt the chill of dread settle beneath her skin.
Once he is set on a course …
Most of what Jane knew about her new husband came from Victoria’s descriptions, a handful of less-than-cordial interactions, and his reputation as an exacting and powerful duke. Much of her resistance to their marriage was based on her unsuitability to fulfill the role of duchess. It had consumed her thoughts to the exclusion of all else.
Until now.
Now, she must consider that, in addition to being the eighth Duke of Blackmore, he was also a man. The deeply uncomfortable conversation she’d had earlier with Annabelle about the “joys of marital relations” played again through her mind as Victoria, along with Jane’s sisters and mother and maid, Estelle, all flitted about her like a flock of butterflies.
She swallowed hard, her ears heating and buzzing.
He was a man.
Handsome. Commanding. Virile.
Oh, dear God. Why had she not realized sooner? All along, she had worried she would be found lacking as his duchess. What should have concerned her most were her imminent failures as his wife.
She struggled to recall what Annabelle had told her. Something about “transporting” and “utter bliss.” Her sister had mentioned that a man had an appendage, and not to be alarmed, as it needed to harden. When Jane had asked how such a thing could occur, Annabelle had assured her that if a man found a woman pleasing, it would happen naturally.
Her lungs seized.
What if he did not? Find her pleasing, that was.
“… grace?”
She shook her head and blinked into Estelle’s face, which hovered inches from her own. “Oh, b-beg your pardon, Estelle. Were you speaking to me?”
The maid, a thin woman of forty whose friendly, matter-of-fact manner had made her one of Jane’s favorite companions, just smiled. “New title might take a while to get accustomed to, eh?”
Jane blinked again and nodded absently.
“Are you quite all right?”
Jane did not respond.
She couldn’t.
She was too busy dashing for the chamber pot, where her mother’s magnificent wedding breakfast made an early—and unpleasant—reappearance.
*~*~*