Chapter Three

A s Arabella entered the breakfast room, the footmen stood to attention—two flanking the door, another beside the buffet, and a fourth attending Aunt Kathleen.

Of her fiancé, there was no sign.

She approached the table, and a footman rushed to pull out her chair.

“Where’s the duke?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Lady Arabella,” he replied.

“You should know. He wasn’t at dinner last night, either.”

“Arabella, that’s enough,” her aunt said.

“I’m his fiancée. I have every right to know where he is.”

Aunt Kathleen inclined her head toward the footmen. “ Pas devant les domestiques. ”

“Surely they must know where their master is,” Arabella said.

“Child, must you be so petulant?” her aunt cried. “It’s not your place to demand where the duke is—not as his fiancée, and certainly not as his wife.”

“I won’t be his wife, Aunt—I’ll be his duchess .”

“Must you be so troublesome? Do you want your fiancé to witness such unladylike behavior? He’s already going to considerable trouble to accommodate your whims, with that garden of yours.”

“With my money,” Arabella said. “I—Ouch!” She broke off as her aunt gripped her wrist.

“Child, it’s not your place to ask how the duke spends his money.”

But it’s not his yet.

“Charles, fetch Lady Arabella some breakfast,” Aunt Kathleen said, releasing her grip. “A little scrambled egg, but only one slice of bacon.” She turned her pale-blue gaze on Arabella. “We don’t want you ruining your figure before your marriage, do we?”

“And afterward?”

“You must maintain your appearance to keep your husband interested, until you’ve given him an heir. Then it matters not.”

Because, at that point, she’d have served her purpose.

“If you behave,” Aunt Kathleen continued, “I might be disposed to permit a second slice of bacon every other day. When we next see the modiste for your fitting, I’ll decide then whether it would be appropriate.”

She cocked her head to one side, expectation in her gaze.

Arabella rubbed her wrist. “Yes, Aunt, thank you.”

“Well?” Aunt Kathleen barked at the footman. “Get on with it!”

The footman scuttled over to the buffet, where he deposited a spoonful of eggs and a slice of bacon on a plate before placing it in front of Arabella.

Arabella wrinkled her nose at the odor rising from the food.

The eggs were off.

And…was that a green hue on the edge of the bacon?

She pushed her plate aside.

“Aren’t you going to eat it, child, after I took such pains to have it brought over?”

“I’m not hungry, Aunt,” Arabella said. “And if the modiste is visiting, I wish to ensure that she has no need to make any alterations.”

“Quite right,” came the reply. “Though I fear we must travel to London for your fitting. Madame Delacroix is making a most awkward business over your bridal gown. She’s refusing to travel here until her account is settled.”

“Shouldn’t we settle it, then?”

“We will, on your marriage—as I’ve assured her numerous times. But not only has she refused to accommodate us, she’s encouraged every other modiste in town to do likewise. It’s monstrous!”

“What, that we’ve not settled her account?”

“No!” Aunt Kathleen cried. “It’s monstrous that I—a blood relative of the future Duchess of Dunton—am being treated thus!”

Arabella said nothing and reached for the teapot. Doubtless the rumors about Dunton’s debts had reached the ears of London’s tradesmen and women. But there was little point in discussing the matter with her aunt. The last time she asked about her fiancé’s creditors, she had earned her a sharp slap with Aunt’s fan. She still sported the bruise on her upper arm, just beneath the sleeve—administered in such a position as to be invisible to others.

“What are you doing?” Aunt Kathleen asked.

“I want tea.”

“You’re not some commoner who serves at the table! Charles—pour my niece’s tea.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

Arabella suppressed a sigh. Was there no part of her life over which she had any control?

The footman poured a measure of tea into a cup, then handed it to her. At least he hadn’t added any milk, which, judging from the odor coming from the jug on the table, had suffered the same fate as the eggs. His gaze met hers, sympathy in his eyes.

How dare he! Did he—a mere servant—deign to express such an emotion? Was she so pathetic a creature as to command the pity of a nobody?

“Where’s my sugar?” she demanded. “I take two spoonsful. Don’t you know that by now?”

His expression morphed into the cold politeness of the impeccable servant.

“Forgive me, Lady Arabella,” he said, in a tone that conveyed anything but contrition. He tipped two measures of sugar in her tea and stirred it. She acknowledged the action with a nod, then sipped the tea.

Too sweet.

She loathed sugar in tea. But a dark little corner of her soul rejoiced in having someone obey her command. She might be a prisoner of her situation, but there was a twisted comfort in knowing that others were bound by stronger chains—at least in the breakfast room.

Breakfast concluded, and there was still no sign of Dunton. But his absence had become something she craved—respite from the anticipation of his attentions. If he were cavorting with whores before their marriage, how would he behave once he’d secured her hand and her dowry?

Arabella allowed herself a wry smile as she exited the breakfast room. At least Dunton’s creditors would stop plaguing them once her dowry was released. Did he think her so much of a simpleton that she didn’t know who all those men were—hammering on the door at his London lodgings at all hours, demanding payment? Their flight from London to hole up in this godforsaken manor, with its overgrown garden and empty larder, was merely delaying the inevitable. It wouldn’t be long before his creditors followed them to Ilverton.

Which raised the question…

She stopped and glanced out of the window overlooking the garden. She hadn’t meant to stop there—it had just been a coincidence. But there he was, in his bronzed, semi-naked glory, working the land, driving his shovel into the earth, his body exuding a raw, primal power.

How had Dunton secured that gardener’s employment if he lacked the funds?

She let out a sigh. “What am I doing?”

Was being a duchess worth losing control over her destiny? Would she ever be able to make a decision for herself again, other than how many sugars she took in her tea?

Yes. There was the garden. The unkempt mess she’d seen from the carriage on the driveway when they first arrived. Ilverton Manor was suffocating—a mausoleum filled with rotting wood and musty furnishings, not to mention the vermin that scuttled beneath the floorboards and behind the wainscoting. Whereas the garden she could mold into shape, and it would become her place of respite from the world, from life—and from him .

Lost in her thoughts, she wandered along the hallway until she reached the main doors, where a footman stood in attendance. He stiffened as she approached, then met her gaze.

Don’t show me pity—I could bear anything but your pity.

“Well?” she demanded. “Aren’t you going to open them?”

He blinked, smoothing his features into the bland expression of a servant, the same expression that her maid wore when Arabella admonished her—the mask all servants donned in the company of a master, or mistress, they despised.

He bowed and opened the door. Sunlight illuminated the hallway, picking up dust motes that swirled in the air, floating aimlessly and freely.

Sweet heaven—am I comparing my life unfavorably to that of a dust mote?

Tilting her chin, she swept past the footman and stepped out into the summer air, relishing the warmth of the sun on her skin. Doubtless Aunt Kathleen would admonish her for venturing outside without a parasol, but Arabella’s spirits lifted at the notion of committing an act of rebellion, no matter how small.

It wasn’t as if she were committing a transgression. She’d insisted on the work to the garden. It was only right she review its progress from time to time.

Much of the overgrown part of the garden had already been cleared, revealing the landscaping. As she’d suspected, the garden consisted of two tiers—the outer edge forming the upper tier, with a square, sunken section in the center, accessed by a single flight of steps. Several more shrubs had been planted on the upper tier, forming a symmetrical pattern.

She caught sight of the gardener carrying a pile of branches and leaves through an archway at the far end, beyond which smoke was rising. Near the steps, he’d driven his shovel into the ground. She approached it and ran her fingertips over the handle, the wood polished smooth through years of use. Beside the shovel was a pile of wooden-handled tools, a thick notebook—open at a page depicting a sketch of a garden—a hessian bag, and a man’s shirt and jacket, neatly folded. As she glanced toward the archway, she heard the crackle of a fire. The smoke thickened, punctuated by the occasional wisp of burning leaves, caught by the rising air before they disintegrated into ash.

The gardener reappeared, wiping his hands on his breeches and retracing his steps. He looked up and caught sight of Arabella. Rather than showing deference, he stared at her, boldly, his gaze traveling over her body, and the ghost of a smile played on his lips.

“How dare you stare at me!” she cried.

Amusement danced in his eyes. He lowered his gaze to her neckline, and the tip of his tongue flicked out and caressed his lower lip.

“Do you not speak?” she demanded.

“I do.”

“Yet you continue to stare.”

“A man can be forgiven for lookin’ when such a sight is before him.”

Arabella tempered the tiny pulse of excitement.

“You’ve no right to speak to me!”

His grin broadened, showing even white teeth. “You’re the one who asked me to speak.”

“No, I didn’t—I only asked whether you did speak,” she said. “And I’ll thank you to address me properly.”

He raked his gaze over her body again, and she fought to temper the pulse that had thickened in her center.

“I’ll address you properly, ma’am—but I doubt you’ll thank me for it.”

“It’s Lady Arabella to you.”

“Then, Lady Arabella to you —you can’t blame a man for looking.”

“You impertinent knave!”

He let out a low chuckle, which sounded almost like a growl. Heavens —even his laugh sent a ripple of sensation through her body!

“I’m only teasin’ you, ma’am—sorry, Lady Arabella . Have you come to see the garden? The duke tells me it’s for you.”

“It’s his wedding gift to me.”

Why she felt the need to tell him that, she didn’t know. But if she meant him to be impressed, he showed no sign. Instead, he arched an eyebrow in a gesture that carried an air of amusement—or disdain.

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” she replied. “It would serve you well to remember my position—as well as yours.”

“I’m always willin’ to recall a woman’s position ,” he said, his voice deepening, “particularly in relation to mine.”

He cocked his head to one side, and the uncomfortable heat in her center began to spread through her veins. Whatever the meaning of his last words, they carried an air of…depravity.

Delectable depravity .

Sweet heaven! Her body had reacted on her observing him from a distance, but at close proximity, his potency threatened to overwhelm her. She drew in a breath to temper the sensations threading through her body, but her senses were assaulted by the scent of him—the heady, spicy cocktail of wood, smoke, and fresh sweat.

The scent of man.

No! This will not do!

She closed her eyes in an attempt to compel her body to quieten the maelstrom swirling inside, curling her hands into fists to stem the tremors in her body as fear threatened to engulf her…

Fear of the unknown, fear of her body, which seemed to have a will of its own…

…and fear of her own desires—the raw, base need in her soul to surrender to the depravity.

No!

“Anythin’ the matter, your ladyship?”

His voice, laced with amusement, broke through the fog of need, and she opened her eyes to see him staring at her, his eyes filled with a lust to match her own—and something far worse.

Recognition.

He recognized her desire for what it was—like a stallion recognizing the scent of a mare in heat.

Stop it!

She stepped back, and his eyes widened with concern. Before his concern turned into pity, she gestured toward the garden.

“I want the rosebushes clipped into a symmetrical pattern after you’ve planted them,” she said.

“You’ll never force a rosebush to conform to your niceties, your ladyship. I can plant them in a symmetrical pattern, but if they’re to thrive, they must be allowed to grow as nature intended.”

“Not if the garden is to conform to aesthetics,” she said. “Or are you so ignorant of your trade that you refuse to obey instructions? I hardly think it proper to let anything run wild.”

“Do you speak of rosebushes, or prospective duchesses?”

“I should have you whipped for insulting your better!” she cried.

The warmth in his eyes turned to frost. “You’re no better than I, madam,” he said. “An idle, pampered creature, engaged to a man nearly twice her age, merely because he has a title. Do you even love him?”

Arabella caught her breath. “Who are you to ask such a thing?”

He shrugged. “It’s a simple enough question—do you love the man or not?” He turned the shovel over in his hands, as if inspecting the handle. “I care nothing for your feelings, but perhaps you should, seein’ as you’ll be surrendering your freedom and your person to him.”

Her arrow may have found its target, but his missile buried itself deep into her heart, releasing the uncomfortable truth.

Then his expression filled with understanding, as if he recognized the pitiful creature that she was. An object—chattel—to be used according to the whims of the man who owned her.

Curse him! Curse them all!

She drew her hand back, then slapped him across the face.

Her palm stinging, she tilted her chin to convey her superiority, and glared at him.

A flare of anger ignited in his eyes, and he lifted his hand to rub his cheek.

“You get one strike for free, woman,” he growled, “but try that again and you’ll suffer the consequences.”

A dark little nugget pulsed in her center with a secret thrill at the prospect of consequences being administered at his hands, and she raised her hand again.

With the speed of a striking snake, he caught her wrist and pulled her hard against him.

Sweet Lord —he was magnificent! Rather than cow her with the whining words of a duke, he claimed her with the rough hands of a beast. His body was iron-hard, yet he molded himself against her as if they were one. She tilted her head backward, and a low whimper escaped her lips as she looked into eyes the color of storm clouds.

Then he lowered his mouth to hers.

His tongue probed against the seam of her lips, demanding entrance, and, with a whimper, she surrendered. He plunged inside like an invading army, then the soft, velvety weapon swept across her mouth with a gentleness that belied the hard body that had imprisoned her in its grip. Her defenses crumpled at the tender caresses—as if he cherished every last drop of her. Then he curled his tongue around hers, encouraging her to respond. With slow, tentative movements, she probed his tongue with hers, shifting from side to side to engage in the dance.

A long, slow growl of approval reverberated in his chest, and her heart swelled at the notion of his taking pleasure from her touch. She curled her tongue around him, and he darted the tip back and forth, beckoning her toward him until, fueled by need, she kissed him in return, running the tip of her tongue along the roughened skin of his lips.

Little mewls of pleasure swelled in her throat, and she felt something, hard and hot, pressing against her belly. The heat coursing through her body began to converge, to form an ache in her center. She shifted her hips to ease the ache—the raw need that her body’s instinct told her only he could satisfy. Then she let out a low moan, surrendering to pleasure.

He broke the kiss and pushed her back.

She let out an involuntary cry of frustration as the pleasure faded, leaving only the ache.

Then he let out a laugh.

“Lady you may be, but you’re like all women when it comes to bein’ in need of a good rutting.”

Shame and humiliation doused her, like ice-cold water. But it wasn’t shame at her own wantonness—it was shame in having responded to his tenderness.

A tenderness that did not exist.

What a fool she’d been! Instead of recognizing her plight, he’d sought to humiliate her. Like all men, he cared nothing for her except as an object to quench his lust—or to ridicule.

Hot tears stung her eyes, and she wrenched herself free.

“You—bastard!” She swung her fist, but he sidestepped, and she lost her balance and crashed to the ground, her skirts flying up, exposing her legs, right up to the scars on her thigh.

His eyes widened as his gaze fell on her legs.

Could her humiliation get any worse? Now, as well as viewing her as a wanton, he’d seen her deformity—the scars. Aunt Kathleen had threatened her with a beating if she were ever to reveal them.

Arabella grasped her skirts, covering herself, blinking back tears. Then he offered his hand.

“Forgive me, miss,” he said. “Let me help you up.”

She slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me!” she cried, struggling to her feet. “You should be horsewhipped for forcing your disgusting attentions on me!”

“You were willing enough,” he said. “But your secret’s safe. Nobody saw us.”

“How dare you speak in such a familiar manner!” she cried. “There is no ‘us.’ I want you gone, this instant!”

“Only the duke can order me gone.”

“I’ll speak to him when he returns,” she said. “At the very least, I want you out of my sight for the rest of the day.”

“I’ve work to do.”

Stubborn creature! Why wouldn’t he do as she bade?

She glanced behind him at the column of smoke rising from the bonfire, and an idea took shape. If he refused to take heed of her words, she would seek satisfaction by other means.

“Very well,” she said. “But you need food—I won’t have you say we’re ungenerous to the staff. Go to the kitchen. Tell the cook I sent you.”

He arched an eyebrow.

“Must I repeat my request?”

“Very well, seein’ as you’ve asked so politely.”

He inclined his head, then set off for the kitchen, whistling a merry tune.

What a beast , to take such amusement from her distress!

But, as she smoothed her hair into place, she smiled at his retreating back.

He’d had his amusement—now she would have her vengeance.