Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

B eatrice had never been kissed, of course. Ladies weren’t, not until they got married. It hadn’t occurred to her that a kiss would be expected—perhaps she felt that their marriage was not ‘real’—and so it was something of a shock when the vicar urged them to kiss.

Part of her had expected the Duke—Stephen, his name was Stephen and he was her husband —to demur, somehow. She had not expected him to pull her in his arms that way and press his lips to hers.

A kiss was a strange thing, she thought. It made her feel as though specks of ice were dancing over her skin, butterflies surging in her gut and fluttering most immodestly.

And then it was over, and he was pulling back, face blank, and people were applauding.

Beatrice blinked up at him, not quite able to understand that she was married . It was over.

Or perhaps it is just beginning.

Stephen seized her hand and pulled her down the aisle. People were laughing and talking loudly, their eyes eating Beatrice up as she passed by, hands absently clapping. She caught flashes of familiar faces—Anna, looking anxious, her father, dazed, John, concerned, Theodore, resigned—and then they were outside, the air cool after the heat of the church.

A large carriage waited, decorated with flower garlands and greenery, and a footman in fine livery obsequiously opened the door. Beatrice tumbled inside, vaguely aware that some of the guests were coming out after them, talking and laughing, with the intention of waving them off.

Stephen climbed in after her, the door was shut, and the carriage lurched away.

Beatrice sat quite still, clutching the edge of her seat, trying to come to terms with it all. In the space of… what, five minutes? She had gone from a single woman to a duchess, from a noisy, crammed church to a quiet, still carriage with her new husband.

Stephen cleared his throat, picking at his cuffs. “That went well, I think. I do apologize for the kiss. I should have asked the vicar to omit that part.”

She cleared her throat. “We’re married, then.”

“Indeed, we are.”

Silence descended between them, and Beatrice began to wonder what on earth she was going to say to this man for the rest of her life.

It doesn’t matter, said a little voice in the back of her head, because you aren’t going to see much of him, are you? He was most clear on that point. This is not an ordinary marriage. You aren’t even friends, and that is not going to change anytime soon.

“Where are we going?” she heard herself ask, her voice pitched a little too high.

He glanced briefly at her. “Home. Well, back to my London residence, where the wedding breakfast will take place. We will be there in a few minutes. I hope you’re ready to greet the guests. My mother will be there, by the way. She wants to meet you.”

Beatrice was still reeling by the time the coach pulled up outside the Duke’s familiar home, and the door was flung open.

This is the third time I’ve been to this house, she thought, climbing out, and this time, it belongs to me.

The house didn’t feel as if it belonged to Beatrice.

The place was full, full of people who she either did not know or had cut her in the past, all suddenly keen to speak to her and rekindle their acquaintanceship now that she was a duchess.

Anna was certainly around, but Beatrice could not seem to find her. Or Theo, or her parents, or John, or even her husband. Beatrice was in the process of being cornered by a tall, thin, disdainful-looking woman who kept trying to invite her to a musical evening when a more robust, tall woman with graying black hair and a sparkle in her eyes came to her aid.

“Come, Mrs. Harris, we should let the bride mingle,” the woman exclaimed, giving Beatrice what seemed to be a wink and looping her arm through hers.

Mrs. Harris mumbled something uncharitable but obediently moved away, leaving Beatrice with her new companion.

“I… I beg your pardon, but I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” Beatrice said, with something of a gasp. “Or if we have and I’ve forgotten, I cannot apologize enough. I have met so many people tonight, so many people wanting introductions, and?—”

“Not to worry.” The woman laughed. “We have not been introduced, although I have been looking forward to meeting you. I am the Dowager Duchess of Blackwood, Stephen’s mother.”

Beatrice blanched. “His… his mother ? I had no idea. I?—”

“Yes, yes, I imagine he told you I was traveling,” the Dowager Duchess said, laughing.

Beatrice said nothing. In fact, Stephen had told her no such thing, nor did he mention his mother. They had not had a conversation since she agreed to marry him up until the actual wedding.

It didn’t seem like a good idea to say as much, though.

“You may call me Theodosia,” the woman added. “I am glad to meet you, and I am glad that my son has chosen what seems to be a kind, sensible woman.”

Beatrice swallowed. “I don’t have much money.”

Now, why had she chosen to say that? Perhaps it was Theodosia’s cool composure or the way she so strongly resembled her son, but Beatrice felt as though she were very much on the back foot with this woman.

Theodosia only laughed again, though. “That hardly matters, I think. My son has plenty of money and has never concerned himself very much with fortune. I understand that your engagement was a quick one. I would have preferred to meet you beforehand.”

“Yes, I am sorry we could not meet,” Beatrice said, smiling nervously.

In her mind, she had expected the actual wedding itself to be the hardest part, but apparently, she was wrong. Apparently, there was worse to come. The guests, for a start. Stephen’s mother .

Although Theodosia did not seem to be the overbearing harridan Beatrice had feared. She seemed… well, she seemed ordinary.

As if she were reading Beatrice’s mind, Theodosia chuckled, reached out, and took her hand. “Stephen can be a handful. His childhood was… it was difficult, which is the case for too many children these days. He was a difficult young man, and sometimes I consider him a child still, not a grown man with a dukedom behind him.” She gave herself a little shake, something sad crossing her face, almost too quick for Beatrice to catch. “But enough about me. Tell me about you , Beatrice. Stephen tells me that you are quite a scholar.”

Now, that was a surprise. Out of all the things Stephen could have told his mother about her, Beatrice would not have expected him to describe her as a scholar. It sounded as though he’d said it almost admiringly.

Or is that just wishful thinking on your part? And if so, why are you so eager for him to think well of you?

That was not a question she was keen to answer. Clearing her throat, Beatrice tried to concentrate on Theodosia instead.

“Our acquaintance was not long,” she heard herself say. “But his closest friend married my closest friend, Anna, so I suppose we were connected that way.”

Theodosia nodded, smiling, the look in her eyes intent. Beatrice had a feeling that lying to this woman would be a mistake. A mistake and a waste of time, as she would likely see through any lies straight away.

Stop it . She’s a woman, not an oracle, probably torn between her delight that her only son is married and panic that he has chosen the wrong woman.

Does she know about his determination never to have children? If she knew, would she care?

It didn’t matter, of course, because Beatrice could not tell her about it anyway.

Theodosia’s silence made Beatrice feel as though she had to fill the quiet with words, talking and gabbling about nothing and everything, fidgeting with her dress, and altogether acting like a silly, giddy girl who was overwhelmed on her wedding day.

Which, she supposed, she was.

Does she know about my first wedding and the part Stephen played in calling it off? Has she guessed? Does she suspect I’m some sort of flirt, some schemer, or perhaps just an innocent girl who was caught up in Stephen’s schemes?

I’m none of those, I suppose. I’m not entirely sure what I am.

Theodosia interrupted Beatrice’s babbling with a gentle smile and a hand on her arm. “I like you, Beatrice,” she said.

Beatrice stared at her, baffled, but Theodosia went on. “I like you, and I think you’ll be good for Stephen.”

“Oh,” Beatrice managed lamely.

In the next moment, a gaggle of acquaintances descended on them both, everybody talking at once, and Beatrice found herself separated from Theodosia. She was trying to get out of the crowd when she ran face-first into a man’s firm chest.

No prizes for guessing who.

“There you are,” Stephen said, looking bored. “You look tired.”

“I am tired.”

“You can go up to bed whenever you want, by the way. Mouse ought to show you to your room. I suppose we should have shown you where you’ll be staying beforehand, but there really wasn’t time. I imagine I’ll go to the club once this party has died down, and I might bed down at one of my apartments in town if it’s too late.”

Beatrice paused, blinking. “It’s… it’s our wedding night.”

He stared down at her. The air seemed to grow heavy between them.

“Now, I had thought that you wanted to be excused from your wifely duties, my dear?”

Her face burned. “I didn’t mean… oh, come over here, let’s talk in private.”

Without waiting for a response, she grabbed his sleeve and towed him through an arched doorway that led to a dark hallway outside. The heat and noise were muffled out there, making her feel oddly removed from all the chaos unfolding mere feet away.

Perhaps it was a mistake, in hindsight. Stephen immediately stepped forward, too close, forcing her to step back, bumping her back against the wall.

“We have a rather singular arrangement, do we not?” Beatrice persisted, lifting her chin and holding his gaze. “Nobody else knows, and you were keen to keep it that way, yes?”

“Indeed.”

“Well, if we spend our wedding day avoiding each other, and then spend our wedding night apart, don’t you think people will talk?”

He paused, tilting his head to the side, considering. Beatrice waited for him to think it over, hating how her heart hammered.

That sudden, insidious feeling of wanting kept threatening to come back. She wasn’t entirely sure what she should do about it. Was it normal, having been kissed by a handsome man, to imagine kissing him again?

Probably.

“The thing is,” he said, thoughtfully tapping his chin, “if I ever lie with you, my dear little wife, we will not have to pretend.”

Now, what was that supposed to mean? Her face was certainly beet red by now, and the gloom of the hallway could not quite hide it.

“I feel like I must ask,” he said, abruptly changing tone, “whether you know what it is you are asking for, my dear.”

“All I am asking for,” she ground out, “is a little discretion . I don’t particularly want the whole of the ton to know you aren’t sharing my bed.”

“What I mean is, do you even know what happens during the act? Perhaps that kiss we shared at the altar is all the proof Society needs.”

She glared at him. “You are enjoying this.”

“That is hardly the point.”

“For your information, I read books, Your Grace .”

He gave a short laugh. “Oh, forgive me! You read books ! Of course, all the information about living life can be found in a book!”

“Yes,” Beatrice snapped, a little disconcerted. “Yes, it can. And I know that we can quite easily share a bedroom without producing a child if you can keep your hands to yourself.”

“And can you keep your hands to yourself, my dear?”

She blinked. “Yes. Yes, I can, quite easily.”

She did not allow herself to imagine what it would be like to lie side by side in a bed with Stephen. In her imagination, the bed was a fairly narrow one so that they lay close like sardines, shoulders brushing, sharing heat under the blanket.

Why was her heart pounding harder than ever?

“I do hope,” he drawled, “that you have no intention of turning mother, like your dear friend. Because, as you doubtless recall quite well, that is out of the question for us.”

She bristled. “ Of course, I remember. I don’t want children—not now, not never. So perhaps it would be best if you did take yourself off, my dear husband .”

He only chuckled. “Whatever you say, my dear, whatever you say.”

He pushed past her, disappearing into the crowd, leaving her feeling out of place, frustrated, with a pounding heart and that feeling of wanting in her gut.

No. I will not allow this.

She turned, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him back into the hallway.

He staggered, taken by surprise just for a moment. She had an instant to enjoy the fact that she’d shocked him, and then his expression darkened.

Taking her by the shoulders, he pushed her against the wall with a thump that took her breath away. She opened her mouth to complain, but long, cool fingers wrapped around her neck suddenly, and her words died in her throat.

“Careful, dear,” Stephen murmured, his voice low and menacing. “Don’t overstep.”

He was standing close to her, very close, so close that when she breathed, her breasts pushed against his chest. An unmarried woman’s reputation would be shattered irrevocably by being caught in such a position, and even a married woman would be scolded for the lack of propriety.

Desire swelled in Beatrice’s gut. It was horrifying to have a name to put to the feeling, but also thrilling. None of the milk-and-water heroines of the modern novels ever felt anything like this.

She swallowed hard, sure that he would be able to feel her throat move against his palm. He wasn’t squeezing or pressing in any way, nothing uncomfortable, but she knew without trying that he would not allow her to slip away, or wriggle free. His eyes darkened with an emotion she could not identify.

“I am your wife,” she heard herself say, her voice catching. “You must treat me with a measure of respect, surely.”

The ‘ surely’ in the end was a mistake. A knee-capped sentence, somebody had said once. Certain words like I believe or maybe undermined the surety of one’s thoughts.

Stephen only chuckled. The pad of his thumb slid across her lower lip, sending the wanting pulsing lower into Beatrice’s gut. To her horror, she found that her body wanted to push itself against his in a most primal and frankly ungenteel manner.

She forced herself to stay still, her palms flat against the wallpaper behind her, the Duke’s thumb on the corner of her mouth.

In a flash, Beatrice imagined the tip of her tongue darting out to touch the digit, and it sent a shudder through her.

Abruptly, quite without warning, the Duke pulled away. Beatrice found herself unsteady, staggering forward.

“You are quite right,” Stephen said brusquely, not looking at her. “My apologies. I really must be going, though, my dear.”

“Going?” she repeated, dazed.

“Mm-hm. Enjoy the party, won’t you?”

He didn’t wait for a response, simply turning on his heel and marching away.

This time, Beatrice did not dart after him. She simply stood there in the hallway, aching with frustration and something else she didn’t quite dare to name.

Swallowing hard, she took a moment to compose herself before returning to the party.

Stephen walked quickly, shouldering his way through the crowds. Not that he needed to do much shouldering. Even here, at his wedding party, people got out of his way, smiling deferentially. He scarcely noticed them.

Heat and arousal flooded his body, desire singing in his veins.

It would have been the easiest thing in the world to take her there and then, to slide his hands underneath her voluminous skirts and have her right there against the wall at their own wedding party, regardless of who might come by or glance into the hallway and see them.

Would she object? She didn’t look as though she would object. I’ve seen desire often enough on a woman’s face to know what it looks like.

He swallowed hard, trying to force himself to calm down.

I have to find a distraction elsewhere. I am going to go mad at this wretched party.

Ignoring any well wishes and congratulations thrown his way, Stephen stomped up the stairs towards the cool, private rooms.

“Your room, Your Grace,” Mouse said somberly. “Do let me know if anything is not to your taste, and there is a bell in the corner of the room. Your things should be in place already.”

Beatrice was exhausted. The party had gone on for longer than she had expected. Her cheeks hurt from forcing a smile, and her eyes were gritty with fatigue.

Stephen had disappeared somewhere, and his absence had certainly been noticed. She was also hungry, as there had been surprisingly little opportunity for her to eat at her own wedding party. However, she was too tired to think about eating. Sleep was the order of the day, and she would eat in the morning.

“Thank you, Mouse.”

The butler bowed and backed out of the room, leaving Beatrice alone.

The first thing she noticed was that the room was cold, the hearth empty. There was firewood in the basket beside the grate, but she couldn’t bring herself to consider kindling a fire or even summoning a servant to do so.

She was obliged to ring for a servant to help her out of her wedding gown. The wretched laces at the back simply would not cooperate—not that she could reach them anyway. She managed to get the top half of the laces undone, and some of the buttons, so that the dress began to slip off her shoulders, but she could not reach the rest of it for the life of her.

The door creaked open. Beatrice, her back turned, let out a sigh of relief. “Thank heavens you’re here. That was quick. Can you unlace me? I’m sure this gown is trying to strangle me.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Beatrice heard the click of something being set down, and footsteps approached. She expected the maid to say something, or otherwise announce herself, but there was only silence.

Beatrice gave up twisting around to undo her gown, letting her arms fall to her sides with a sigh.

Warm fingers ghosted down her bare skin quite without a warning, making her jump. She just had time to wonder what maid had such large, smooth hands before a deep voice spoke behind her, making her flinch.

And worse yet, sending a spike of desire to her gut.

“Breaking my rules already, Duchess?”

She made to spin around, but Stephen’s fingers were already on the laces, keeping her facing forward.

“You!” she spluttered. “I rang for a servant.”

“And instead you got a duke. Today is your lucky day.”

She twisted, half considering yanking herself free. The ghost of his fingers still tickled along her shoulders. He had touched her deliberately, she knew it. A flush bloomed on her chest, and she self-consciously pressed her gown against her bosom, let it sag and dip.

“Why are you here?”

“I came to bring you a tray of food. Somebody mentioned that you hadn’t eaten much all day, and I happened to be in the kitchen on my way out.”

“On your way out?” Beatrice repeated, clutching her dress tighter as the laces at the back loosened. “Where are you going?”

“Oh, I’m sure we’re beyond such questions, my dear,” he responded smoothly, and she could almost hear the infuriating smirk on his face.

He undid the laces and buttons easily and quickly, until the gown was entirely undone, revealing all of her back. She spun around, eyeing him warily, dress clutched to her front.

He regarded her, as cool and impassive as ever. In contrast, Beatrice was flushed and sticky, her heart hammering, her skin tingling. After that first touch, it seemed that the Duke had taken pains not to touch her, only the occasional brush of his fingertips here and there.

It was uncomfortable in the strangest way. A good sort of uncomfortable, where Beatrice knew full well the feeling ought to recede, that it was not what proper ladies felt, and yet… and yet… And yet here it was. Here she was, seething with something that appeared to be a mix of anger and desire—a potent mix that had her shivering on her feet.

She glanced briefly over at the dressing table and saw that, true to his word, he had indeed brought up a tray of food.

“Anything else, Duchess?” he said, flashing that infuriating grin.

She sucked in a breath.

I want you to stay.

She couldn’t say that. Of course not.

“Nothing I can think of,” she managed, since some reply was required.

His grin only widened, and he executed a quick, mocking bow. “Goodnight then, wife.”

And just like that, he swept out, leaving the room emptier than before, a faint smell of cologne hanging in the air.

Alone again, Beatrice hastily discarded her gown, changed into her nightdress, and crawled into bed.

Immediately, she realized that her silly, little fantasies of her and Stephen sharing a bed, shoulder to shoulder, were nonsense. The bed was huge, at least two or three times the size of her bed back home. She might have shared a bed with half a dozen people and never noticed.

The mattress was firmer than the one back home, too, and there were too many pillows.

Not back home, she reminded herself. This is home, now.

Blinking, Beatrice swallowed back tears.

I’ll get used to it. I suppose I’ll have to.

She left the candle burning on her bedside table, and in the bouncing, flickering light, her discarded dress almost seemed like a person’s crumpled form, lying on the floor.

You’re being silly. This is perfectly normal. You knew what you were getting into before you even signed that list of rules. You don’t want him here, do you?

She didn’t. Of course, she didn’t. He didn’t want to be here.

Despite her tiredness, an hour or two ticked by, while the candle burned down and Beatrice stared at the ceiling.

Stephen did not come back.