Chapter 3
Anthony tugged on his starched, once perfectly folded cream cravat. Again. He caught a glimpse of himself in one of the many ornate, gold-framed mirrors in the morning room, and hoped to God he looked like a prospective husband. He’d grown accustomed to grand rooms over the years so, at least, he no longer felt out of place amidst the Adams’ and Chippendale furniture, silk hung walls, and sparkling crystal chandelier. He wore them now like comfortable clothes, which had taken a great deal of doing in his youth. And much like the furniture, he’d grown to enjoy the expensive attire draping his body.
This morning, he’d chosen one of his simpler ensembles. Sapphire blue cut away coat, gold-embroidered waistcoat, black breeches. His boots were so polished they were almost as reflective as the mirrors. Looking away, he locked his hands behind his back. Waiting.
Waiting for her.
Wondering if she’d approve. Wondering why he cared. He knew he looked the perfect gentleman.
The truth was, and much to his own surprise, he quite liked dressing well. Not as well as Beau Brummell, mind. In Tony’s opinion, no sane person should spend that sort of time at one’s toilette. Three hours with an audience seemed a dance with the devil. But unlike the rarified set he now often spent his hours with, he’d spent a good part of his life in ripped trousers and a shirt that was three sizes too big. Shoes had not been a possibility. Nor had they been desirable.
Firstly, his mother couldn’t afford them and secondly, well. . . They weren’t considered a necessity. One’s hooves were quite good enough, thank you very much, over Ireland’s rich, green, stone-dotted fields.
When he’d finally met his father as a traveler boy, his father had smiled kindly, offered him a cabin of his own on the vast ship and not said a word about shoes or clothes.
Instead, wise man that his father was, he’d simply placed them in Anthony’s cabin and waited.
At first, he’d been furious and defiant. He’d seethed in his small quarters, hating to be so penned in, far preferring to be out racing up the rigging and spending a good deal of time in the crow’s nest gazing out to the far off horizons.
Facing the world without his dark-haired, blue-eyed mother had been a prospect too agonizing to bear. For all his life, it had been she and him against the world. And it had been magical, even if it had often been difficult. He was adrift without her. She had been his polestar, his comfort, and the only person who had ever loved him.
To lose that. . . It had rocked him to his very core. The darkness that had engulfed him had been deep and terrifying.
Once in his father’s company, he’d engaged in fisticuffs at every opportunity with the hardened sailors and at the exotic ports they’d anchored in. Pain had been an anchor. It had saved him in a way he’d never thought possible.
It had not occurred to Tony that his father had been looking out for him since he’d boarded the ship, like some mad angel, until one day he was cornered in an alley by four men with cudgels. As usual, he’d happily insulted everyone in the nearest tavern hoping for a fight. Usually, even though physically he was a boy, he was the man left standing and he savored the wild feel that pulsed through his veins, distracting him from his suffering.
Finally, inevitably, he’d insulted the wrong man.
As a cudgel had come down in that grim, trash-strewn alley, smashing his arm, the scream that had ripped from him had been primal. Like a feral animal sensing its doom, he’d eyed the other rough men circling in on him, ready to lash out in its eminent death throes.
He’d known he was going to die. No matter how good a fighter he was, he was no match for four armed, seasoned bruisers.
And as he’d slumped into the mud and another cudgel had come down, he’d breathed a sigh of relief, glad that he was about to shuffle off his mortal coil and see his mother again. Shuffle off all the pain and care of being utterly alone.
It was then that he’d heard the most terrifying growl in all his existence. Possessed, Captain Aston, his father, had singlehandedly torn the armed men from Tony’s person and beaten them into sprawling, crawling vermin on the filthy ground.
Tenderly, and as if Tony had weighed no more than a babe, his father had picked him up and carried him back to the ship.
No words had passed between them until a week had passed, they’d returned to sea, and he’d mostly healed.
To Captain Aston’s credit, he had never doubted that Tony was his son. The big, dangerous man had taken one look at Tony, allowed him aboard and told the entire crew to welcome his son. It had not made Tony like him.
He could still recall in vivid detail the moment his father had sat beside his hammock in the tiny cabin, his wild hair a riot about his lion-like face, and asked quite seriously, “Would you like to hit me, lad?”
Tony had blinked, scrambling for an answer in all his still seething anger at the world. “You’re the captain, sir. Can’t hit the captain. I’ll be flogged, will I no’?”
Aston had arched his brow and pulled Tony up from the swinging ropes. He’d stood, staggering a little on his weakened legs after spending so much time resting.
His father had faced him, a giant of a man. He’d lowered his hands, as powerful as a blacksmith’s hammers, to the side and replied, “You won’t be flogged. You’re angry, pup. Deuced angry. At the world. At me. And I deserve it. I wish I’d known about you. Wish it more than I can ever say. But we can’t go back.” His father had given an encouraging nod. “Now, you hit me. You hit me until all that anger is out of you. And we’ll never have a day like we did in that alley again.”
Fury had pummeled through him. How dare this man confront him? Captain Aston didn’t understand. He hadn’t been there for his mother. Hadn’t married her. Saved her. Helped her. He was a devil. He’d left them all alone. No money for medicine. No money for a doctor. It didn’t matter that his father hadn’t known the dire circumstances that had befallen his mother after their fling.
It didn’t matter that he hadn’t known of Tony’s existence.
So, he’d pulled back his fist and drove it into Aston’s jaw.
Aston’s head had cracked back and blood spurted from a cut in his cheek. Still, the man didn’t lift his hands in self-defense. Instead, he nodded again, his gaze kind. “That’s it, lad. That’s it.”
Tony lifted his fists again, his hand smarting, ready to beat his father into the floorboards. Ready to savor every blow.
But as he hauled an arm back, the emotion that tore through him wasn’t the desire to fight but to simply not hurt any longer.
Tears had stung his eyes and he choked, “I miss her.”
At that, Aston’s eyes had burned with grief and sympathy. He’d pulled Anthony into his bear-like embrace and held him as no one ever had. Not even his beloved mother. There had been a power in that all-encompassing, fatherly embrace that he hadn’t been able to deny.
He had sobbed out his pain onto that shoulder that seemed like it could bear the weight of the world.
Tony had not immediately trusted but, over the months, he’d come to like the man who was his father. And one day, he’d gone into his cabin, taken off his rags, and put on the sharp, fresh clothes that had been supplied to him.
He still hadn’t put on the shoes. A man’s toes were the best for gripping the rigging.
My God, things had changed since then.
Shoes were still not his favorite things. There was something about feeling the purity of the earth or ship’s boards beneath one’s feet. But London wasn’t exactly the best place to go unshod. There was nothing pure about a London street.
When his father had brought him back to the greatest capital on earth, it had been a shock to his system. Not the teeming city in itself, but his new place in it.
All his life, he’d been a traveler boy, getting his bread in often nefarious ways, then a sailor. Now, he was to be a gentleman.
One thing had been certain, his father had been determined to give him everything possible will he or nil he.
Tutors had been hired, lessons in riding, archery, dance, and deportment had taken place. Then, just as one launches a vessel, Tony had gone to Oxford.
Those hallowed halls had been both heaven and hell, for it was there that he had proclaimed his bastardy with pride and a bit of a taunt, daring any toff to make much of it.
To his relief, only a few had. Those tossers had been easily made short work of with a few quick fights followed by bottles of brandy and, much to Tony’s surprise, he had made friends. Many of them.
Now? Now, he was at the pinnacle of society when just a few years ago, he had, in all actuality, been at the very bottom.
He gazed at the door to his new morning room in Ayr Place and suddenly felt as adrift as he had when he’d first set foot on England’s shores with his father.
Lady Eleanor thought little of him. He ground his teeth together, impatient with himself. In fact, she almost certainly disdained him.
It shouldn’t matter. He’d always been above such things, but he felt himself recalling the rather ugly feeling he’d experienced when she had so easily turned down his offer for a dance.
He wasn’t a child. That was the past. Surely, he could overcome her natural dislike. Surely, he could find a way not to dislike her for such an action. This was for a far greater cause, was it not?
The door softly swung open and his butler, a fellow with the rather pert name of Bright, stepped in and announced, “Lady Eleanor Paisley, Your Grace.”
Your Grace. Dear God, would he ever get used to it? He doubted it very much.
He steeled himself, squaring his shoulders, widening his stance, much like a man readying himself for impending battle.
She stepped into the room, head high, her own shoulders squared, and all the warmth of an iceberg.
Lady Eleanor Paisley was a queen of ice and his breath left him as he, once again, came face to face with her.
Black hair that shone blue was swept back from her oval face. A natural blush, only complemented her creamy skin. And her eyes, my God, her eyes. They were the sort of eyes in which a man could lose his soul.
The sharp green which looked at him could have cut him to the quick. They were as dazzling as emeralds, and as cool. When she crossed towards him, the folds of her gray gown whispered against the carpet.
She looked like an exceptionally expensive governess what with her plain gown and steely air. But there was something so still, so sure, about her that he found himself, for the first time since he had seen her last, speechless.
It was not a state to which he was accustomed. He didn’t think he’d ever become accustomed to it.
She curtsied, a perfect dip of her head. Her gaze came to him from under long, dark lashes. The perfect pink of her mouth did not tilt in a smile.
They surveyed each other in silence. A silence which stretched and stretched until he was certain the room might break apart like glass.
Surely, one of them would make the first volley. But who?
“Congratulations, Your Grace,” she said at last, the soft purr of her Scottish burr shocking.
It did the most delicious and terrifying thing to him. For this creature of ice had the voice of an earthy wanton.
“On our marriage?” he could not help himself asking as he struggled to make sense of her seductive voice.
She did not smile but rather cocked a brow at him as if he were daft. “On your recent ascent, Your Grace.”
“Tony,” he replied, determined that he should put them on a familiar foot. Teasing had not worked, though he would not give up easily. A man like him would never grow accustomed to surrender.
Her smooth brow furrowed. “I canna possibly call you that.”
“Why?” he asked, puzzled.
“It’s. . . It’s not correct,” she stated quickly. Then she followed swiftly, “It’s not proper. It’s not done.”
“Ah.” He grinned, astounded at her dedication to propriety. What would it take to shake her cool reserve? “All the more reason.”
“Ah, but you are to be a grand man,” she corrected. “And, therefore, you must be concerned with such things.” She eyed him up and down, much like one does a stallion at the races. “I shall call you Ayr.”
Her blunt riposte nearly threw him as did her careful surveyance. Had he been found wanting? Or had he come up to snuff?
“Must you?” he croaked.
“I think I must,” she said easily. “It’s who you are now.”
Who he was now. Was that true? Once again, it felt like a set of ill-fitting clothes.
He cocked his head to the side, bridling at her rigidness and yet wondering why it was thus. He did not take offense to her instruction. It was one of the chief reasons he was to marry her. And he found himself being oddly drawn to her schoolmistress tone.
It wasn’t in his nature to be obsequious, and he had a firm suspicion it would not appeal to her. So, he decided to be direct.
“I don’t see that properness, correctness, and doing what’s been done will be of the most benefit to my tenants or the people of our nation.” He leaned forward and prompted, “Do you?”
She opened that perfect, pink mouth then snapped it shut. She pursed her lips then replied, “I think that is an incredibly complicated question. Are you asking me if I think our country is in need of reform? Or are you asking if we should sweep all rules aside?”
He gaped at her. “Both I suppose.”
“Then, my answer is aye, we need reform, and no, rules shouldna be eschewed. Every functioning society needs them.”
The soft roll of her vs and rs nearly undid him, as did her clear intelligence.
His mind boggled and he cleared his throat, fairly stunned by her forthcoming speech. Long ago, he’d let his Irish accent slip into the necessary plummy tones of his father’s people. He loved hearing that she still spoke with the voice of her people. Clearing his throat, he explained, “I have a mind to be a good lord, Lady Eleanor, to actually assist the people who are in my domain. I understand the Duke of Ayr was not the most proficient at this.”
A wary look crossed her face but she agreed readily. “He didna take particular interest in the welfare of those under his care.”
My, she was serious. He wondered how best to form some sort of tentative connection with her.
Perhaps, it was time for a compliment. So, he pinned his most winning smile to his lips and said, “I understand from Blakemore that you did a great deal to help the less fortunate people on your lands.”
“Aye.”
Tony fought a sigh. There was no way around it. She did not like him. Or, at least, she was unwilling to enter into easy discourse.
Clearing his throat, again, he decided the only action to take was to spearhead the present distance between them. “Forgive me, Lady Eleanor, but do I displease you in some way?”
“Displease me?” she echoed as if she were giving her opinion on cream in tea.
“Yes,” he said, fighting the frustration flooding through him. “Do I repel you?”
Her smooth, white brow furrowed. “Does it matter?”
He choked. “Pardon?”
“You dunna repel me.” That furrowed brow turned into the most practical of frowns. “You must know you are handsome. But I dunna think we have anything in common. So, I see little point in carrying on. Shall we not simply agree on the conditions of our marriage and proceed?”
Her reply so amazed him he could formulate no reply.
“Forgive me, Your Grace. Are you unwell?” she asked.
“Are we so very different then?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
Her brows rose. “I shall be straightforward. You are a rake. I dunna think you can deny it.”
“I would never try,” he admitted.
“Good.” She gave a tight nod, as if economy of movement was an essential part of her armor. “I am a person interested in the practicalities of this life, you in the frivolities.”
He took that in, his spirits sinking. “Good God, your opinion of me is rather poor.”
She shrugged. Shrugged. “Well, I only know your reputation.”
She remained still, unbending, then. ’Twas like being condemned and sent to Tyburn, her quiet disapproval.
“If it gives you any relief,” he said, at last, doing his very best not to grit his words. “I have every intention of being faithful in our marriage.”
She blinked then lifted her gaze to his and asked quite boldly, “Do tigers change their stripes so readily?”
“This tiger has never been married,” he pointed out, wondering if she was always so blunt, wondering if she thought him such a degenerate. Why would she even consider him for marriage? Then again, being a duchess was a deuced difficult thing to turn down. “As a bachelor, I’ve behaved as a bachelor. As a married man, I shall behave as a married man.”
Another strange look crossed her visage. “I dunna require you to be devoted to me. In fact, I prefer you to carry on as you have.”
“You don’t?” he scowled. Was that his alarmed voice? “You do?”
She nodded emphatically, her dark hair shining in the morning light. “Ours is a marriage of convenience, is it not?”
Bloody hell, this was the strangest conversation with a woman he’d ever had. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
“Good.” The first real smile of the morning tilted her lips, in a glorious curve. “We understand each other.”
“Do we?” he asked, his spirits sinking, even as he felt his damned self being captivated by that one smile that clearly was not for him.
Unwilling to give up, he attempted another winning smile, the one that worked on the most acrimonious of old curmudgeons. “Surely, we shall be more than ships that pass in the night?”
“If you deem it necessary, we can attempt to become friends.” But then her eyes narrowed. “There is one matter of importance that is essential to me if we are to have a successful marriage.”
“I am rapt,” he drawled, wishing he could sit down, but not quite willing to admit that this was going very badly, indeed.
She lifted her chin, a delightfully stubborn gesture. “You must promise that you willna stand in my way once we are wed.”
The force of her statement stunned him and he found himself wondering what sort of man her guardian had been. “Why in God’s name would I do that?”
Her lips pressed together before she said flatly, “Let us just say, I have had experience with people doing just that.”
“We shall knock them down together,” he replied, hoping to form some sort of alliance with her. To assure her, he was on her side. “I have no time for people who interfere with independent ladies.”
She eyed him suspiciously, as if he’d suddenly sprouted a second head. “Truly?”
“I do mean that,” he replied, determined she should understand his intentions. “I’ve never understood why men give ladies so little credit.”
Her brows drew together as she studied him, clearly in a state of disbelief. “I do not know what to make of you.”
“It is reciprocal,” he admitted, heading to the fireplace.
“Och, well, I did tell you we had little in common.”
He grabbed the poker and jabbed it into the fire. He thrust it back onto the brass hanger and turned to her. “So you did.”
She stepped towards him, a functional step, no femininity to it. “All that matters to me is that, in our marriage, I be given rein to do as I see fit regarding certain causes that are important to me.” Abruptly she cleared her throat. “And I must let you know now, that I am not an affectionate person. Do not look for such a thing from me. You shall only be disappointed.”
It was his turn to be still, suspicious. Not out of coldness, but of a great sadness that immediately weighed down upon him with those words.
For all her regal haughtiness, he abruptly wondered if her own coldness was a sort of protection. It was immediately plain that Lady Eleanor had suffered, but she clearly wished no one to know it.
Now, it was his turn to dare. Despite his inherent dislike of her, the terrible course of this conversation, and the misfortune of the day they had met, he crossed to her.
Her eyes flared, but he paid no attention to it. He gently took her gloved hand into his big one.
Her pink lips parted at the touch.
“I promise that you shall be free to do as you see fit,” he vowed, marveling at the way her hand fit so perfectly into his. “And I will respect your wishes.”
She glanced wordlessly down to their clasped hands.
Regardless of their acrimony, he felt a sudden wave of heat arise between them. She looked up and, much to his shock, he saw a fire there. A fire in those emerald depths that was not there a moment before.
Her chest rose and fell in quick breaths before she tugged her hand from his.
For a moment, his own palm was aloft. He let it fall, the shocking hint of desire he’d felt at war with something else.
“May I ask. . .” A muscle ticked in his jaw and he forced himself to relax. He had to ask this. He had to, if he was to have any peace at all in their truce of a marriage. “Will you be able to resign yourself to my bastardy? Granted, I am a duke now, but I know that some find my birth. . . Troubling.” He paused then locked his searching gaze upon her. “You seemed to be one of them.”
Her cheeks flashed red and her gaze held his with no hint of loathing. “I dunna,” she replied firmly.
“Indeed?” The passion in her voice nearly stole his ability to reply but, nonetheless, he continued, “I am a bit surprised.”
A fierce, defensive look tightened her elegant face.
“I have never thought ill of you because of your parentage,” she proclaimed without hesitation, her spine as straight as a poker.
He did not relent in his pursuit but rather asked, “But you admit you think ill of me?”
She met his question with no hint of true dislike of him, merely honesty. “I do not know anything about you but your reputation, Ayr. So, I canna think badly of you.” A hint of a smile tilted her lips as she then added, “Yet.”
He laughed dryly, feeling immeasurably relieved. He believed her. Slowly, he backed away and gestured to the green-striped damasked chair before a marble-topped table to the side of the room. “Then we shall have to get to know one another.”
“Alas, I have an appointment.”
His hand fell and, once again, he felt himself agog. What the devil was happening? It was becoming very clear that, for the first time, he was most definitely not guiding an interaction with a lady.
She was most definitely guiding him.
“An appointment?” he repeated. What in the devil was she on about? Was their meeting of so little importance to her? “May I know its nature?”
“I doubt its nature will interest you,” she replied factually, with no apparent intent to insult.
“Try me,” he drawled, feeling a wave of impatience at her unflappable reserve.
She gave him a look which suggested he was capable of only choosing shirts and brandy. “I am going to Kew and shall meet the head gardener.”
He gazed at her anew. This creature, who looked as if she’d be at home in a schoolroom, wished to meet a gardener? “You’re interested in gardening?”
“Not exactly,” she countered. “I’m interested in medicinal plants.”
He stared.
“To grow at the castle,” she said as if it were the most obvious thing on earth. “To treat the tenants?”
She sighed as he seemed not to understand. “In any case, I darena be late.”
She was leaving him high and dry, her future husband, for a gardener? It was nearly laughable, but he supposed she was used to dukes. Still, it was heartening that she liked the outdoors. He had always thrived there.
“May I accompany you?” he asked suddenly without thinking.
Her eyes flared with surprise and perhaps a touch of horror. “Why?”
He grinned slowly. “It might surprise you to learn that I know a great deal about plants and medicines.”
She gave him a doubtful look.
Rolling his eyes, he explained, “Though you seem to think me useless, let’s just say for a few months we had no doctor on my father’s ship. Ours died of a sudden illness, you see. My father and I knew we could not allow such a thing to occur again. So I learned a great deal about the matter.”
It was, apparently, her turn to gape. She shifted on her slippers, her lips pursing before she relented. “I willna stand in your way if you wish to come.”
“Marvelous.” He clapped his hands together, jumping at the chance to share something, anything, in common with his future wife. “I’ll call my carriage.”
She nodded, her eyes wide.
And for the first time, he felt a hint of hope that he had brought his rather astonishing bride to a shocked silence. Perhaps all was not lost after all.