JOSIE WAS CONFUSED by her behavior in the carriage. How could someone who’d reviled the Duke of Blackthorne for the past two years have enjoyed kissing him? And she hadn’t just enjoyed the experience, she’d reveled in it! She felt ashamed of herself. How could she have been so easily seduced by a handsome face and a reassuringly tender touch?
Put in those terms, she could understand why she’d succumbed to Blackthorne’s spell. It wasn’t the handsome face; it was the reassuring touch. It had felt so wonderful to lean on someone else, to grasp Blackthorne’s strong hand and know it was there to support her, even if it was only for a few moments at the altar. Once their vows were spoken, that hand was presumably there, along with that support, for the rest of her life. It was a heady feeling, to say the least.
She hated herself for being such a ninny, forgetting every bad thing the duke had ever done to his nephews—or to the girl he’d rescued—because he knew how to kiss a woman so her knees turned to jelly and her thundering heart felt as though it might burst.
Josie had been astonished by Blackthorne’s unexpected behavior on the steps of the church. The proud, remote figure who’d taken her hand at the altar was not the same man who’d scooped her into his arms and raced helter-skelter through buckets of rain to the ducal carriage. Seeing Blackthorne’s hair plastered to his face with rainwater, seeing it drip from his nose and chin and eyelashes, had suddenly made him seem human. She wasn’t sure whether he’d smiled first or she’d laughed first, but both of them were soon overcome with mirth.
Then he’d removed her spectacles, and something had happened. Their humor had dissolved as he stared at her, his eyes revealing wonder and what she finally—and stunningly—realized was desire. Her whole body had felt taut, as though she were being held captive by strong, invisible bonds. She’d waited, her breath coming in short pants, for whatever came next.
What happened next was that she realized she was human, too. That she was as susceptible as the next silly miss to a rake’s seduction. It made no difference that Blackthorne was her husband. He was still a virtual stranger, and that kiss had been…
Wonderful.
Josie chided herself for focusing on the feelings the duke’s kiss had evoked, rather than the audacity of the man who’d provoked them. She was an innocent bride. That kiss had been…
Beyond anything I ever thought a kiss could be.
When her spectacles splintered on the carriage floor, Blackthorne had broken the kiss. And she’d suddenly realized that his hand was cupping her breast. She’d stared down, watching as his thumb brushed across the satin, where the shape of her aroused nipple was clearly visible, causing her to shudder with pleasure. She’d pulled away abruptly and angled her body toward the window, staring out at the people hidden under black umbrellas on the rain-splashed London streets.
Josie caught her lower lip in her teeth. She was remembering Blackthorne’s mouth moving on hers and his hand cupping her breast. She couldn’t believe how much that kiss in the carriage had affected her. Or how much she feared—and yes, also desired—the wedding night to come.
How could Blackthorne be so understanding and reassuring to a bride who was a virtual stranger and so unkind and uncaring to his nephews? Where was the selfish ogre who’d ignored her written pleas to rescue his brother’s sons from the untenable situation in which they found themselves? It seemed her new husband had two different faces.
Luckily for her, Josie had seen them both. Maybe the behavior she’d found so appealing was temporary, and Blackthorne was only being nice until the marriage was consummated, and he had the golden goose well and truly caged. Josie had made up her mind, as the carriage pulled up in front of Blackthorne’s mansion in Berkeley Square, to be on her guard, to watch and wait, in order to better gauge whether the duke’s current kindly attitude would last.
Blackthorne had explained before the wedding that she would be meeting his servants when they arrived at his home for their wedding breakfast. She hadn’t expected them to be lined up directly inside the door, wearing stiffly starched uniforms and crisply ironed aprons appropriate to their ranks within the household.
Josie thought back to all the times she’d been condescended to when neighborhood gentry had stopped by Tearlach Castle. As a maid-of-all-work, she’d been beneath their notice. Growing up in America, her feelings about equality had been bred into her, skin and bone. It was the character of a person that mattered, not his birth. She had a golden opportunity to put her beliefs into practice when she greeted the duke’s staff.
Blackthorne slid her arm through his, patted her hand, and said, “This is my wife, Josephine Wharton, Duchess of Blackthorne.” He then gestured toward the line of servants and said, “My household is ready to serve you in whatever way you may want or need.”
Josie slid her arm free and walked up to the first man in line and held out her hand for him to shake.
“Hello,” she said, giving the portly balding man her most engaging smile. “What’s your name?”
The servant looked at her hand and sent a glance toward the duke, before taking her hand, bowing stiffly, and announcing, “I’m Fairfax, the butler, Your Grace.”
“It’s so nice to meet you, Fairfax.” Josie smiled more broadly to ease the tension she could see in the butler’s shoulders, but a visible look of relief crossed his face when she released his hand and moved on to the next person.
A middle-aged, florid-faced woman curtsied and said, “I’m Mrs. Rooney, the housekeeper, Your Grace.”
“So nice to meet you, Mrs. Rooney. I hope we can be friends.”
“Oh. I couldn’t possibly—” The housekeeper looked toward Blackthorne for help.
Josie turned to face him as well. “Is there some problem?”
The duke pursed his lips thoughtfully before he said, “If that is my wife’s wish, you must follow her lead, Mrs. Rooney.”
“Oh, no!” Josie said, turning back to the housekeeper. “You must do what feels comfortable to you. I only meant I would welcome your friendship.”
The housekeeper’s lined brow furrowed more deeply at that suggestion.
“Friendship, Your Grace?”
That question, spoken with bewilderment, made it clear to Josie that she would be fighting an uphill battle convincing the duke’s servants to treat her like an ordinary person. She turned to peruse the line of footmen and lesser servants, and found all of them gawking at her as though she were some rare bird the duke had brought home that had begun squawking in Turkish.
Josie sighed inwardly. It was going to take time to change the ingrained habits of a lifetime. She would have to show the way. But her personal overtures could wait for another time, when the duke wasn’t standing there looking imposing and daring his servants to show his new bride any disrespect.
She greeted several footmen and as many maids before she reached the last person in line, a young girl who blushed as she announced, “I’m Gretta. Your maid. Your Grace.” The girl was obviously young and overwhelmed by the position she’d assumed.
Josie glanced at Blackthorne, whose face was void of emotion. She bit back the need to argue that she’d never had a maid and had no idea what to do with one. She suspected this was the work of Blackthorne’s grandmother, who’d been appalled when Josie admitted that she dressed and undressed herself, sewed her own clothes, and curled—or in her case, ironed—her own hair.
Instead she said, “Would you mind if Gretta took me to my room? I would like to repair my appearance before the guests arrive.”
“Of course. I’ll knock at your door and escort you downstairs in time to greet everyone.”
“This way, milady. I mean, Your Grace,” the girl corrected herself with a blush. She took off, only pausing long enough to curtsy to Blackthorne, before hurrying toward the staircase.
Josie followed after her, head held high, refusing to acknowledge her husband as she passed by him. She reminded herself that her stay here was temporary. It didn’t matter if she ended up as isolated and friendless in this house full of servants as she’d ever been at Tearlach Castle. Once she had custody of Spencer and Clay, she would be on her way back to America and a happy reunion with her family.
Josie was not entirely surprised that her bedroom had a door connecting it to the duke’s bedroom, but she was dismayed to discover that there was no lock. She wondered if Blackthorne planned to wander into her bedroom at will. That would never do. She would have to make it plain that she needed privacy.
“Don’t you wish to change, Your Grace?” Gretta asked.
Josie shot the maid a chagrined smile. “I haven’t anything else up to the occasion.” The dowager’s seamstress had promised her elaborate wardrobe would be ready soon, but she’d been focused on finishing Josie’s wedding gown.
Gretta opened a cupboard filled with beautiful dresses for all occasions. “What about one of these, Your Grace?”
“Those can’t be mine.”
“But they are,” Gretta insisted. “They were delivered today. I ironed them myself.”
Josie gaped at the cupboard full of elegant clothing—far more than she’d ordered from the seamstress. Obviously, the dowager had been at work again. She crossed to examine them and found a yellow princess sheath that reminded her of a field of daffodils. She was glad to see it buttoned up the front, so she wouldn’t need her maid’s assistance. She wasn’t willing to show anyone the scars on her back, especially not a maid who might gossip to the rest of the staff.
“That will be all, Gretta.”
“You don’t want help dressing? Your Grace?” she added belatedly.
“Thank you, Gretta, but I can manage on my own.” Josie waited for the girl to leave the room, then locked the door behind her. She turned to stare at the door between her room and the duke’s. Surely he wouldn’t enter without knocking. Nevertheless, she stepped behind a dressing screen in a corner of the room to remove her wedding gown—not without a little difficulty—and don the dress she’d picked from the cupboard.
That done, she sat down at the dressing table, leaned close enough to see without her spectacles, and peered at herself in the mirror. She took a deep breath and let it out. She’d made it through the wedding. She was pretty sure she could hold her own over the next couple of hours with Blackthorne’s titled friends. But a herd of buffalo was trampling through her stomach as she contemplated the night to come.
Josie had decided to wear something to bed that would discourage the duke from disrobing her completely. The garment she’d come up with contained enough material to keep him from discerning the raised scars on her back. She’d coaxed the dowager’s seamstress into making her a blousy flannel gown that tied at the throat and had long, full sleeves, claiming she was always cold at night in England. Then she’d personally added additional layers of cloth inside the back of the gown. She only hoped that would be sufficient to do the job.
The knock on her door was almost a relief. Josie jumped up and opened it, then took an involuntary step backward.
The duke had changed out of his morning coat into a dark blue velvet frock coat and buff trousers, along with a brilliant white linen shirt. But he looked no less imposing. And no less attractive.
“Are you ready?” he asked, lifting a dark brow.
“Yes. Only…”
“Is something amiss?”
“There’s no lock on the door connecting my room to yours.” Josie waited for the frown she expected to form, but Blackthorne merely said, “I hoped there would be no need for locks between us.”
Apparently, there had been no need for a lock when he’d been married to his first wife. Josie struggled not to give in to his subtle pressure to leave things as they were. “You agreed I would be making the decision whether you may enter my bedroom again after tonight. Or not.”
A smile flickered on his lips and was gone. If she hadn’t been watching his face closely, she would have missed it. She held her breath, wondering whether he would allow her a lock to ensure the privacy she sought.
“Very well. I’ll have a lock installed tomorrow.”
Of course she had to receive him in her bed tonight. But tomorrow, and every night after that, she had the right to refuse him. And would. She didn’t want to get any more physically—or emotionally—involved in this marriage than she already was.
Her husband held out his hand. “Shall we go and greet our guests?”
She took the offered hand and let him lead her downstairs, where they formed a receiving line at the door to the ballroom. The dowager and Blackthorne’s twin sisters arrived early and disappeared into the ballroom, but Josie didn’t recognize another soul for the next hour. She smiled until her jaw ached.
“Sorry to be so late,” Seaton said as he shook Blackthorne’s hand. He grinned at Josie and said, “Nice to see you again, Duchess.”
Josie found herself grinning back. “I’m so glad to see a familiar face.”
“I think you’re nearly the last to arrive,” Blackthorne said. He turned to Josie and added, “The rest can greet us inside. Shall we join the festivities?”
Josie heard annoyance in his voice, but decided it was due to the amount of time they’d been forced to stand without moving, rather than anything she’d done. She lifted her chin, ready to face the throng, and headed into the ballroom, which was redolent with fresh-cut flowers. Everyone was clustered around a table holding a towering wedding cake and plates stacked high with finger sandwiches and other delicacies.
“Is there some reason why no one is eating?” she asked.
“They’re waiting for us to cut the cake.” Blackthorne led her to the table past guests who curtsied to the duke and his new duchess.
Josie felt her face heating with embarrassment at obeisance she didn’t believe she deserved. She managed to smile and nod her head, while she hung on tight to Blackthorne’s arm.
When they reached the table, he picked up the knife beside the cake and turned to meet her gaze. “I believe we should do this together.”
Josie put her hand over his as he slid the knife into the lowest level of the three-tiered, intricately decorated cake. A smattering of applause greeted this accomplishment. Josie let go of the knife and began pulling off her right glove.
She saw Blackthorne watching her, confusion written large on his features.
She grinned, then reached out with her bared hand and broke off a hefty piece of the slice they’d just cut. She held it up in front of his mouth. “Open.”
To her surprise, he did. She shoved the piece of cake into his mouth, laughing merrily at the sight of the Duke of Blackthorne with a ring of frosting surrounding his lips.
The assembled group gasped and then tittered.
“I presume this is one of those peculiar American customs,” he said as he picked up a cloth napkin to repair the damage.
“Yes, it is,” she said, still laughing.
“And is turnabout fair play?”
“What?”
Before Josie realized what the duke had in mind, he slid a confining arm around her waist, then grabbed a chunk of cake with his opposite hand and brought it up to her mouth. “Open.”
Josie saw the mischievous twinkle in his eyes and opened wide. Laughing and choking, she swallowed as much of the cake as she could. She used her ungloved hand to collect the frosting from around her mouth, then held up the forefinger on which most of it resided, offering it to the duke.
Josie heard a humming sound, like a hive of bees, in the distance, but everything had ceased to exist except the two of them. The duke’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and she thought she might easily lose herself in those two enticing blue orbs.
He took her hand and brought it to his mouth, his eyes locked on hers, then opened his mouth and sucked the icing from her finger. Josie felt the wetness of his tongue all the way to her belly…and beyond.
A moment later, the dowager appeared in Josie’s peripheral vision.
“Marcus.” With that single utterance of his name, she made it clear that the duke’s behavior was not up to her standards.
Josie was the recipient of a veiled look of contempt. She knew she shouldn’t care what the dowager thought, but her throat was suddenly tight, and her stomach churned. She became aware again of the guests in the ballroom, who were talking low to each other and shooting sideways looks in her direction.
Josie eyed her husband. A duke’s behavior was above reproach, no matter what he chose to do, but apparently hers was not. Josie glanced at the dowager long enough to see the pinched look on her face and decided she wasn’t in the mood for whatever criticism the duke’s grandmother might make of her antecedents, her looks, or her behavior.
“Come now, Grandmama,” the duke began. “You must admit a bridegroom is entitled to some leniency on his wedding day.”
Josie took advantage of Blackthorne’s distraction to murmur, “Excuse me, please,” then turned and walked away.
She had no idea where she was going. She knew very few people in the room, and although she searched for the Earl of Seaton, she didn’t see him. She discovered the doors to the balcony were open to let in fresh air, now that the storm had passed and the sun was out again, and she quickly slipped outside. The balcony was empty, and she crossed all the way to the rail and stood there looking down at the fallow garden, wondering how long it would take flowers to grow once she planted them.
Which was when she spied a figure dressed all in black, standing behind an evergreen bush looking up at her. She gasped and would have backed away, except the figure took off what she realized was a bowler hat and waved it at her. The Pinkerton! Josie realized Mr. Thompson was gesturing for her to come down. Of course he couldn’t show up at the door and announce himself.
The boys! Something had happened to Spencer or Clay. Or both. Josie left the balcony in a headlong rush, then realized how strange it would look if she were seen running through the crowd at her own wedding breakfast. She glanced toward where she’d left Blackthorne, but he wasn’t there. The dowager was engaged in conversation with a woman her age, and the twins had joined a group of young girls.
Josie glided along the wall, hoping to avoid speaking to anyone. Nevertheless, one or two ladies stopped her along the way. She did her best to respond intelligently before moving on, aware every second that disaster might be looming and wondering how she was going to be able to help the duke’s nephews, if they were in trouble.
She discovered a side door to the ballroom and slipped out and down the stairs, hoping she could speak to the Pinkerton and be back before anyone—especially Blackthorne—noticed that she was gone.
She never saw the stealthy figure watching her as she left the room.