Chapter Ten
WHITHER-GO-YE. A wife: wives being sometimes apt to
question their husbands whither they are going. (Grose 1811)
The aisle loomed ahead, an elongated path of fraught unease and enormity.
And at the end of it stood her spouse-to-be. Or rather the back of him, as although guests had twisted for a glimpse of her, Rakecombe remained unperturbed.
How typical.
Mr Beckford patted her hand and cast a questioning glance, to which she responded with a smile. She herself had agreed to this wedding and a Quinlan never backed down, so grasping his hand firmly, too firmly judging by his grimace, the two of them meandered down the aisle as though they’d all the time in the world.
Amongst the guests, Sophie fluttered her hand from a pew to the left and Jack winked from the right. Mrs Beckford cast a watery grin and Meghan positively beamed.
Rakecombe still remained unperturbed.
Finally, as her skirts rustled against his leg and Kelmarsh nudged him with an elbow, he tipped his head in her direction.
It would almost have been a disappointment if he had smiled, a cliché. Firm lips held their place, cool eyes inspected and nostrils flared, so she merely raised a brow and then faced the man of God about to marry them.
For the entire ceremony, the Duke of Restraint reigned supreme, his bearing officious and unbending as though a blade prodded his spine, skin like ice when their hands were joined in holy matrimony.
And no warmth entered his eyes as he held out his arm for them to depart the church as husband and wife, although his gaze did linger on the violets in her hair.
A part of her wished he’d show some slight contentment at marrying her, but then again, his solemn countenance had given credence in this life-binding ceremony and she’d felt a certain comfort in his firm avowals to care for her always, in sickness and in health.
But the fact remained, he’d resembled an icicle.
Indeed, an icicle might have been preferable – at least they melted in spring.
∞∞∞
“I am going out. I will not return for dinner.”
The stern voice, not requiring of reply, interrupted her thoughts, and she eyed her husband of barely one hour across the celebratory wedding table, guests and family chatting around her with inebriated enthusiasm.
He hadn’t melted during the carriage ride to the Rakecombe residence. Instead, he’d grown yet more tense, more aloof, and the only saving grace to all this starchiness were his clothes. A bottle-green tailcoat, an emerald waistcoat, black breeches, and an amethyst stickpin which matched her dress.
The damn bug looked utterly splendid, but had he attempted to brighten up his attire for her benefit or–
“Glad to see my togs fit you, Rakehell,” boomed Lord Winterbourne as he plonked himself on the seat next to her husband.
That would be a no, then. Jack had persuaded him.
How very…disenchanting. And now he was going out. On their wedding day.
Yes, their marriage had been forced, but surely he liked her well enough to spend a few hours with her?
But perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps a certain desire was all he felt, and the surly shabbaroon had tired of their banter already.
She looked away, not wishing him to see the hurt, but ended up clashing eyes with Jack – who saw all too well, she realised.
“You look divine, Aideen. Perfect,” the rogue flattered. “Has Rakeshame also told you that? Or is he being coy?”
Abruptly, she straightened her spine. She was a Quinlan…and now a Rakecombe. The combination appeared heady. “No, Jack, he hasn’t. To be sure, he has been most solemn and inaudible. One would think he is not happy with his choice.”
“Perhaps, Your Gracefulness,” Jack countered, “he just needs a little encouragement. What say you, Rakeshame, how do you find your bride?”
The full aristocratic gaze speared her way and she steadily glared back. His eyes wandered over her ringlets, paused on her face, narrowed on her lips. Lower, his perusal caught on her bosom, caressing her waist, until finally it landed at the table.
“I cannot wait for supper,” he drawled.
Jack choked on his wine, and Aideen scowled. The arrogant jackanapes. “Perhaps, Your Grace, I will also be out and not return for supper.”
His nostrils flared, eyes livening to a verdant forest, and he leaned forward.
“Hellcat,” he hissed.
“Hellhound,” she answered, also leaning forth.
They were inches apart. The green in his eyes became absorbed by black and that dilated gaze dropped to her lips.
“I think this conversation should continue tonight,” murmured Jack, slanting into their midst. “Such sweet love play does not belong at the wedding breakfast table.”
With food still heaped upon the serving platters and guests still making merry, Aideen watched her husband depart the festivities with Jack. She knew the marquess also worked for the Crown and so supposed they must be off on spy business.
If there was some reason behind his hasty departure, she wouldn’t mind being abandoned quite so much.
Napoleon and his minions didn’t care that he’d married today, and enemies of the state hadn’t sat down for a cup of tea solely because Miss Aideen Quinlan had gotten a husband.
In actuality, she and Uncle Seamus had worked all hours on occasion too, crafting some urgent piece for the fellows at Whitehall. Fiendish snuff boxes with hidden space for papers, pistols that fitted in a beaver hat and waistcoats that guarded guineas. All for the freedom of these islands and the Continent.
So how could she begrudge an afternoon?
Contemplating the grand room, she felt pleased the duke had suggested hosting the breakfast at his Grosvenor abode as the Beckfords’ would have been too small. She had attended here once as a guest but living in this austere house would be a different matter.
Tall ceilings and cold marble caused the place to feel unloved, and sound echoed eerily in the substantial rooms. The servants had stood at the steps to greet her – all thirty-two of them, not including those from the stable mews – but they’d acted welcoming enough.
Family and close friends still filled the room, with Meghan chatting to Sophie and Cordelia, and Kelmarsh sat with a certain Viscount Rainham.
She tapped a finger against her mouth and scrutinised Lord Rainham.
A shrewd face. Intelligent and wise. She’d noticed him talking quietly with Rakecombe earlier and assumed he must be something to do with Crown affairs.
At that moment, he glanced up as though hearing her thoughts. Both men stood and made their way to her.
“Aideen, you look beautiful.” Kelmarsh grinned. “May I introduce the Viscount Rainham.” She held out her hand. “And Lord Rainham, may I present, Her Grace, the new Duchess of Rakecombe.”
The gentleman kissed said hand. “Delighted, Your Grace. And a pretty given name, I overheard too, means litt–”
“Yes. I’m afraid I am,” she responded before he could ask.
Lord Rainham smiled, displaying straight white teeth. “Then you are perfect.”
“And you’re the third to say that today. It could all go to a girl’s head but thank you, I don’t know why.”
“The duke needs a robust companion.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “Are you aware of my connection with your husband?”
“I believe I can guess, my lord.”
His brow lifted, and his gaze inspected her again. Finally, he nodded. “Come meet Lily Mereworth, my wife-to-be. She asked me to marry her last week.”
Lord Rainham hustled an open-mouthed Aideen to the delicate blonde she’d seen at his side earlier, and she was once again envious of a loving couple as introductions were made.
Although there was no overt physical show of affection, Lord Rainham’s hazel eyes softened as he beheld Lily and the lady’s smile in return was equally tender.
In an instant, she recalled Rakecombe and herself spitting words over the wedding table. Would they mellow with time? Was she normal to enjoy the baiting? The taunting?
“I must speak with Mr Beckford,” said Lord Rainham. “He wants to know why he keeps losing at piquet.” He bowed to Aideen. “Give my regards to your Uncle Seamus when you write to him.” And with a subtle wink he turned, leaving Aideen open-mouthed…again.
“Congratulations, Your Grace,” said Lily Mereworth, and Aideen wondered who she was talking to.
“Oh, that’s me,” she gasped. “Please, call me Aideen… It’s too strange.”
The lady laughed, a broad warm chuckle which she felt impulsively drawn to.
“You are reminiscent of my betrothed.” Lily’s eyes flitted to the deep-blue tailcoat of Lord Rainham. “He has recently been made viscount but still looks around for one when thus addressed.”
“Did you really ask him to marry you?” Aideen blurted before raising a hand to her runaway mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry, that was most rude.”
But the lady just giggled again. “I did. Although I didn’t lower to one knee. That would have been frightfully improper.”
Aideen laughed with her and felt…content. She gazed around the room, at the loving Beckfords, at Sophie and Cordelia, at Meghan, staring wistfully at the wedding cake, and at this sweet lady that she felt would become a good friend.
This was her family now, she realised. Not always of blood, but of friendship and mutual care. And she was enfolded within it.
∞∞∞
Rakecombe stood naked beneath his bathing contraption and pulled the rope, letting the freezing cold water sluice over his body.
It cleared his head but didn’t halt the raging lust that had beset him all afternoon. He angrily pumped the handle again, venting his frustration on the device. Water shot up the pipes and he pulled the release rope once more, dispensing the contents directly onto his face.
Once in a while, he requested heated water be put into the storage vessel of this newfangled apparatus, and if he was lucky, it was still warm when he staggered in. But tonight he needed some ice-cold clarity.
It was a half after nine and he’d been informed that following the wedding breakfast, Aideen had toured the house, dined with his mother and then retired abed, ordering that no supper was required.
The little minx.
Fortunately, his valet Thorn knew his master’s habits well and had laid out cold meat and bread. Most of the servants had been given the night off as part of the celebrations, his valet included, but he often asked for the bathing device to be filled and food to be left on the dresser.
If a night’s investigation had ended badly or without result, he didn’t want to be fussed over by Thorn. He wanted to be left well alone.
Towelling himself as he stepped out, he pondered on what to wear. A bronze-coloured banyan had been laid out but that felt presumptuous, so he strode over to the wardrobe and gathered shirt and breeches.
Not that this afternoon’s investigations had concluded negatively.
Winterbourne had suggested taking the carping butler to an ale-house to loosen him up.
He’d loosened aplenty – boasting of his conquests, complaining of how cold the house was and bemoaning his master’s lack of manners. Apparently, he considered Stafford an uncouth thug and lamented the shortage of decent families to butler for.
Perhaps he had sought employment and if the grizzled fellow had been a chef, Rakecombe might have been interested.
After that, he’d departed the ale-house in order to sort out a guard for Aideen. Someone reliable and quiet. A veritable shadow that she would never see.
It had taken longer than expected as he’d had to interview sixteen candidates but eventually an unassuming but suitably brawny chap had been selected.
Now dressed, Rakecombe slugged a brandy.
Would his wife’s door be barred to him? He had, after all, left Aideen alone at their wedding breakfast, and what had seemed such a good idea yesterday evening seemed utterly despicable in the cold light of day.
He’d abandoned his beautiful bride with unknown guests in a strange house.
He’d called her a hellcat.
Swiping a hand over his face, he wondered if he should even attempt to enter her quarters at all, as ’twas probable he’d get a chamber pot in the physog. And he wouldn’t blame her.
But surely as soon as they’d burned this lust from their bodies, they could live their lives peacefully…and separately. His gut burned in torment, and he wasn’t sure it was the brandy.
Snatching up the decanter and two glasses, he headed to the adjoining door and knocked. No light shone under the door, but a candle near the bed would cast only shade.
His insides twisted, and the decanter wobbled in his grasp.
God, was he…nervous?
“Yes,” a soft Irish voice answered, and he grasped the handle whilst juggling the glassware. Thus, he must have projected the quintessential befuddled bridegroom as he lurched into the room.
He stopped dead.
The duchess’s bedchamber had remained unoccupied for aeons. His mother had vacated it when Father had died, citing too many memories, and even then, she’d moved into one of his smaller townhouses. She still used their family abode for soirées and came to dinner once too often, but he wondered if she was to thank for the fresh decor.
Immaculate silks festooned the bed in a deep rust and new furniture adorned the room: an elegant writing desk, a dressing table with huge mirror and a comfortable striped silk chaise. In the far wall, a fireplace glowed to counter the damp of London spring.
The lone item he did recognise was the walnut wardrobe, but the probable reason it hadn’t been removed was because it was the size of Piccadilly.
Aideen lay in the middle of the huge bed, reading a book by candlelight, wild black curls cascading around her. She wore a night robe, a frilly white concoction that obliterated any sight of her body, fastened tight to the neck.
She put the book aside and clasped her hands, lace now obliterating any view of even that skin. “Your Grace. I hope you had a successful afternoon?”
Was that sarcasm or genuine interest?
It annoyed him that he didn’t know, that he didn’t know her well enough to discern the truth. But then he wasn’t here for polite chit-chat.
His lust told him not to waste time. It ached to rip that frilly item from her, devour her whole.
But that wasn’t very ducal.
Tonight, he needed his control in more ways than one. In order to keep his future distance, he would need to maintain calm and full awareness of his body’s reactions and emotions. It would be all too easy to become carried away with the duchess. To utter words that should remain unsaid.
“Very,” he finally answered, rather stiffly even to his own ears. With care, he deposited the decanter and glasses on the writing desk. “Can I pour you a drink?”
Aideen nodded, although she also pointed to the bedside table and he noticed a cup of something.
“Tea?” he queried.
“Chocolate with brandy. Warms the cockles. But a glass undiluted would be…relaxing.” She licked her lips.
If she was trying to bring him to his knees then she was succeeding, so to curb the threat, he turned and decanted two glasses.
From the corner of his eye, he saw her push the coverlet back and swing her legs to the floor. The frilly robe enveloped her in a mass of ribbons and lace and frills and– It was hideous.
“Where did you get that robe?” he asked solicitously as she walked towards him. He’d never seen her in anything so horrific – normally her taste was impeccable, tight silks in colours that lit her skin and eyes.
Their fingers brushed as he handed her the glass.
Damnation, the merest touch set him afire. What would happen if they were skin to skin?
“Mrs Beckford’s bridal present.”
A deterrent? He took a sip of liquor.
“But,” she said, twisting a ribbon at the neck, “perhaps you might prefer Sophie’s wedding gift?” The ribbon parted, and the ridiculous frilly item slid from her shoulders.
He didn’t splutter his brandy – perhaps because his mouth had dried. Everything had headed south at the sight of Aideen.
A deep ocean-blue night-rail draped her body with alternate bands of gossamer and plain silk, begging his fingers to discover the secrets beneath. A low bodice framed pale skin and material clung sensuously to her curves, trailing her slender waist and full hips.
The curve of her breast was shielded by silk, but only sheer material swathed her legs.
“Beautiful, Aideen.” There was no point denying such a blatant truth.
“Thank you,” she whispered, “the colour is a little dark for me, but–”
“I am not talking of the night-rail.”
A red flush caught her cheeks and he wanted to lave that heat from her skin. “I apologise for calling you a hellcat. It was…impolite for a bridegroom.”
“Are you?” she asked with a sideways glance, sipping and then slowly licking the brandy from her ripe cherry lips.
“No,” he admitted. “You are beyond doubt a hellcat. My very own exquisite hellcat.”
Her rook-black eyes flared at his possessive tone and he silently cursed.
There was only one way to occupy his insolent tongue and so he put the glass down.
She did the same.