“Indeed, the wealth of one’s husband is only important if one prefers frequent meals over starvation.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Maureen Huxley in response to said lady’s assertion that a suitor’s funds are of less concern than his sincerity.
Three days later, lying in a copper tub with steaming water lapping just beneath her chin, Jane considered that perhaps this marriage was not such a bad bargain after all. The tub, for example, was positively splendid. Deep and long, it had been placed before the carved marble hearth in the dressing room adjacent to the Duchess of Blackmore’s chamber. Her chamber. Inhaling the apple-blossom perfumed steam, she allowed the water’s heat to soothe away her lingering stiffness and sighed with bliss.
Before arriving at Blackmore Hall the previous evening, Jane would have insisted there were few, if any, advantages to the title. Clearly, she had miscalculated. While the luxury of her new home should not have come as a surprise—Blackmore was one of the wealthiest peers in England, after all—seeing it for the first time had overwhelmed her senses.
As their carriage had approached along the drive, the sunset had limned the winged, Palladian sprawl of pale limestone a bright gold. Centered by a pediment and columns, the house rested on a rise above a large, picturesque fish pond. It was surrounded both by a heady wealth of gardens and further by a green landscape of gentle hills and expansive fields.
Once inside the entrance hall, despite her exhaustion, she had spun in place, wondering at the grandeur of peacock-blue silk walls, white columns flanking a shell-shaped niche, and a frescoed ceiling opposite polished marble floors. It made Clumberwood Manor, her family’s country house in Nottinghamshire, seem a shabby peasant’s dwelling. And the entrance hall was merely the first of more than a hundred and twenty rooms, some of which she had spent the morning and afternoon exploring with the kindly housekeeper, Mrs. Draper.
Jane enjoyed comfort. She relished a hot bath, a feather-soft bed, a blazing fire on a chilly night. But she had never dared to anticipate such lavishness being hers one day. Becoming the Duchess of Blackmore might prove an awkward fit in every other aspect, but in this, she would wallow until her fingertips wrinkled like an apple in the sun.
“Are you ready for a rinse, your grace?” Estelle’s voice came from behind her head.
Jane sighed wistfully. “Can I not lie here for the remainder of the day?”
The snap of a towel being briskly shaken was followed by Estelle’s chuckle. “Bound to get a mite peckish, I suspect. Don’t want to be late for dinner, do you? They say the cook here is a mad Frenchman, but his meals are delivered straight from heaven’s door.”
She groaned at the mention of food. “That does sound lovely. Give me just a few minutes more, Estelle. I believe my backside has yet to recuperate from our journey.”
Indeed, despite the sumptuousness of Blackmore’s coach, traveling the rutted road from London to Leeds had not been pleasant. After the first day’s contrariness, the duke had elected to ride his horse, rather than sit inside the carriage with her. At each stop, although he was polite and always saw to her comfort, he had grown remote and taciturn, scarcely uttering a word to her, other than ordering her inside for meals and such. After the first night, he had arranged for them to sleep in separate rooms, remaining true to his promise of delaying their marriage’s consummation.
However, even after arriving at Blackmore Hall last night, they had slept separately, with him citing her obvious exhaustion. She had wondered if he was vexed with her, but he had not appeared so. Which left only one conclusion: He regretted their union and dreaded the intimacy of the marriage bed.
She glanced down at her body, buoyed by the water. It was all whiteness, softness, roundness. How could she blame him, honestly? Most men preferred a more refined form. Everyone knew that.
He would have to meet his manly obligations eventually, just as she would do her wifely duty. But perhaps he had decided a longer—maybe even indefinite—delay would give them time to reconcile themselves to the onerous task. Yes, that was likely. And probably wise.
A weight settled inside her chest, causing it to ache and squeeze all the way up to her throat. Swallowing hard, she reprimanded herself for her foolish emotion. No sense in going all weepy. She sniffed and half-smiled. You should be relieved. Yes, relieved. He shan’t bother you; you shan’t bother him. It is the perfect arrangement. Quite sensible, really.
With that comforting thought, she finished her bath and dressed for dinner. As usual, her arrow-straight hair refused to take a curl, so Estelle simply parted it in the center and anchored it at the back of her head. “There, now,” the maid said, stabbing one last pin firmly along Jane’s scalp. “All finished.”
Jane stood and stared into the mirror of her dressing table. Her gown was exquisite—the gentle green of a meadow at sunrise. The sleeves extended to her elbows, the square neckline adorned with filigreed ribbon in a darker green matching the sash at her waist. Truly, with only the dress, not her face, visible in the small mirror, she scarcely recognized her own form. Mrs. Bowman, for all her bluster, was a masterful talent.
“Here you are, your grace,” Estelle said, draping a soft, ivory shawl over Jane’s arms. “You look a picture. Best not delay. I hear his grace is awaiting you in the dining room.”
Jane nodded, tiny flutters in her belly prefacing an increase in her pulse. As she had seen little of him yesterday, and nothing of him today, perhaps a bout of nerves was to be expected. Why, it was a wonder she could recall his features, so carefully had he avoided her.
Upon entering the dining room, she received a devastating reminder. He wore blue—deep, midnight blue. And he was heartbreakingly handsome, standing so tall and straight beside his chair, his shoulders broad and squared, his hair shining in magnificent, candlelit glory, his brows lowered in a steely glare … at her.
“You are late,” he growled.
Blinking to clear the sudden fog that had descended, she retorted with all the wit she possessed in that moment, “Am I?”
“Five minutes. At Blackmore Hall, we dine at seven. Did Mrs. Draper not inform you?”
She stared at him from her position inside the doorway, for right then, she could do nothing else. Really, it was not as if she had never seen him before. Why did he appear so much more handsome than usual? Strange, indeed. Perhaps he was simply much refreshed after recovering from their travels. “Seven?” she repeated. “Oh, yes, of course. Mrs. Draper did say so.”
“If you knew, then why are you late?”
She looked around the dining room, noting they were the only souls present, aside from the footmen attending them. A single brow arched. “My apologies, your grace. I do hope our guests will not be offended by my poor manners.”
Either he did not understand her sarcasm or he chose to ignore it, because his only response was to pull out the chair to his right and say coldly, “I trust it shall not happen again.”
Mouth quirking, she shook her head and moved to take her seat. It had been two days since she was this close—close enough to smell him. She took a deep breath, gathering sunshine and starch into the cellar of her lungs. Her eyelids fluttered. When had starch become so delicious?
“Did you sleep well?”
The question started over her head then moved to the chair beside her. She nodded. “Quite. And you?”
“Mmm. Better tonight, I expect.” His face was expressionless, his blue-gray eyes restlessly exploring her hair and dress. “You look … well.”
There went that fluttering again. In her belly. In her eyelids. It was silly, like when she drank too many cups of coffee. “As do you, your grace.”
With a wave, he invited her to eat the asparagus soup that had been placed in front of her. She blinked, realizing that perhaps for the first time in her life, she had completely ignored food. And delectable food it was: Veal filet as tender as a new blade of grass, with a rich, creamy béchamel sauce; succulent salmon with a lushly balanced, earthy sorrel sauce; a gooseberry tart that was sweet and tangy and made her eyes roll and lips pucker. Before the meal was over, nine dishes had been offered, all as heavenly as Estelle had reported.
As she slid one last bite of juicy-tart gooseberries into her mouth, the duke, who had been largely silent throughout the meal, asked, “Do you play the pianoforte?”
Biting down and letting the sweet tang explode on her tongue, Jane held up her finger, closed her eyes and savored for just a moment. Finally she swallowed, and turned to Blackmore. His eyes were a bit glazed, his cheekbones a bit ruddy, and his breathing a bit fast. She could only conclude he, too, was reacting to the meal. It really was exceptional. Tomorrow, she would have to meet this mad Frenchman who managed the kitchens. He was an artist. “Yes. Actually, I quite enjoy it, so long as I am not playing before too many people.”
His eyes dropped to her hands, his chest suddenly heaving on a deep breath. “Are you finished?”
Puzzled, she tilted her head. “I suppose I am.”
“I will show you the music room.”
Frowning, she searched his face. He looked pained. Was he still overtired from their journey? Certainly, he seemed a robust sort, not one to require long periods of rehabilitation. Most perplexing.
“And the library.”
“Oh!” She smiled, remembering the two-story, mahogany-paneled room with curved bookcase alcoves and a ceiling painted to resemble a cathedral’s, complete with heavens teeming with angels. She had thought the motif rather appropriate. “It was the first room I viewed with Mrs. Draper this morning. Magnificent, your grace.”
“Did she show you the old library or the new one?”
Wide-eyed, she leaned toward him. “There are two? What’s the difference?”
His grin was slow and unexpected. It made her mouth go dry. “If you have to ask, then you must see it for yourself.” He stood and pulled out her chair. “Come, I will show you.”
And he did, taking her on a head-spinning tour of the old and new libraries. Apparently, the one she had seen earlier in the day was the new library. The old library was tucked away in the back corner of the ground floor, just down a narrow corridor from his study. As he held the door open for her to enter, she could not say what she had been expecting. What could possibly be more magnificent than the new library?
She held her breath, feeling him move in close behind her. So close, the heat of him felt like summer on her skin. “Do you like it?” The low, rumbling question spoken next to her ear sent a shiver down the slope of her neck, over the hills of her breasts, and back up the curve of her spine.
“It is wondrous,” she whispered, so breathless she could barely form words. She wasn’t speaking of the room, although she could have been. It was half the size of the new library, dark and intimate where the other was palatial and grandiose. Walnut paneling stained nearly black was offset by three large windows looking out onto the rear gardens. A fireplace anchored one wall, along with two winged leather chairs and a green velvet sofa. A writing desk sat beneath the center window. The room was perfect. Almost sacred.
“Come,” he said hoarsely. “You must see the music room.”
Turning, she bumped into his chest, her nose landing in his cravat. His hands automatically came up to brace her. “Oh, I beg your … par …”
She looked up—very far up—into his eyes. Before a storm gathered, blue water would transform, grow troubled and take on a steely light. That was the color of his eyes: blue water before a gathering storm. He held her upper arms snugly, his hands wrapping entirely around them and pulling her closer so that the tips of her breasts brushed against his coat.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor. A footman, tending to the candles. Blackmore set her away several inches and swallowed before dropping his hands to his sides. Then, he bowed and waved her ahead of him.
As they walked the length of the house to find the music room, he cleared his throat and began describing the history of Blackmore Hall. “There has been a structure of one sort or another on this land since the time of William the Conqueror. Blackmore Castle still stands, though it is something of a ruin.”
“Really? A castle? I would love to see it.”
He glanced down at her, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly. “Tomorrow, perhaps. I shall take you.”
She smiled. “I should like that very much.”
Nodding, he continued his history. “This house was built and rebuilt four times.”
“Gracious! Four?”
“Mmm. The most recent renovation expanded Blackmore Hall to its current size. My grandfather employed the finest craftsmen of the time. Robert Adam.” He waved a hand toward the grand staircase as they approached the front of the house. “Thomas Chippendale.” For this, he pointed to a mahogany table holding a vase of roses. “Capability Brown.”
“He was a designer of gardens, was he not?” Maureen had spoken of him often, as she adored gardens.
“Quite a skilled one, yes.”
They arrived at the music room. Much like all the other rooms, it was impressive: Cream silk walls with a leafy motif. Elegant, round-backed chairs upholstered in deep-gold brocade and edged with dark wood. The same fabric was used for the draperies. The enormous, square carpet featured a radius design in dark blue, red, and gold.
And then, there was the pianoforte. It occupied a corner of the room, its golden-brown wood polished and gleaming. She shot a questioning look up at the duke. He nodded toward the instrument. “Please.”
She grinned, shrugging off her shawl and handing it to him absently. Seating herself on the matching bench, she brushed the keys lightly with her fingertips. Then, pausing to take a breath, she played a simple country tune she had committed to memory. About halfway through, she sensed him moving close to her, his shadow playing over her hands. But it was rare that she was able to play such a finely tuned, beautifully crafted instrument, and so she did not lift her fingers from the keys until the very last note had departed the room.
She sighed. “This is quite the loveliest surprise I have received in ages. Thank you, your grace.”
Smiling up at his face, she was shocked at how closely it resembled stone. His fist strangled her shawl. His eyes burned over her hands.
Nervously, she reached up to adjust her spectacles. He followed the movement then locked on her mouth. “It is time to retire.” His voice was little more than a low growl, almost menacing in its intensity.
One of her hands settled nervously over her waist. “Oh, but I am not particularly sleepy. Perhaps I could play one m—”
“Now.” The growl was deeper.
Oh, dear. She did not know what had upset him, but clearly something had. The wild gleam in his eyes spoke of barely-contained emotion. She had seen it twice this evening—at dinner, and now here. Whatever the cause, she was not keen on testing his mood. Nodding, she accepted the shawl he handed her and allowed him to escort her upstairs to the Duchess’s chamber. Feeling awkward, she opened the door before turning back to face him—only to find him glaring over her shoulder.
“Oh, your grace! And your grace,” said Estelle from behind her. “I was just preparing the duchess’s dressing gown.”
Turning back to the maid, Jane answered, “Very good, Estelle. Thank you.”
“I’ll just leave you alone now to … retire … shall I?”
Before she could respond, Blackmore said stiffly, “No. Stay and assist the duchess in preparing for bed.” With that, he inclined his head to Jane and backed away. “For now, I shall bid you good evening.”
Watching her husband’s broad back disappear down the corridor, then into the Duke’s chamber, which adjoined her own, Jane shook her head in confusion. “He is the most confounding man, Estelle. I do not know if I shall ever understand him.”
The maid wore a secret smile.
“What?” Jane demanded.
“Nothing. I’d say only this, your grace. Men are simpler creatures than you might think. Chances are, given a fortnight, all will come clear.”
“Well, I do hope you’re right.”
Estelle’s smile grew. “I am, don’t you worry. Now, let’s prepare you for sleeping, why don’t we?”
*~*~*