Chapter Five

Mrs Juliet Stanton had been unreluctantly widowed for approximately five years. In that time, she had taken a number of lovers. Not because she had any particular desire for many of them, but because they provided her with comfort and status at very little cost. It left her on the fringe of the ton , but there were more important things, such as being able to afford the latest fashions, and having a carriage of her own. Money could buy almost anything, and a gentleman's pocket was directly linked to his breeches—or so she had, in five years of widowhood, concluded.

One of her more esteemed callers, who never failed to leave a token of his appreciation, was His Grace, the Duke of Norfolk.

It had taken Juliet a long time to dig her claws into him, and she had no intention of letting them slip. When the Duke called, she was always at home.

"The Duke of Norfolk," her butler said, bowing her guest into her dressing room. He, as did the rest of the staff, knew she would always receive him. As it was, she had been intending to visit the opera, and had a dress already laid out, but that could be easily rectified.

"You may go, Mary," she said to her maid, gesturing for the dress to be taken away. Luckily, she was wearing nothing but a silken dressing gown, and as she turned to the Duke, it slipped off one shoulder. She revelled in the way his gaze marked the movement. "Your Grace," she said. "What a delightful surprise. Business or pleasure?"

"I'm not in the mood for cards tonight."

"Pleasure it is." She motioned to the butler, who closed the door discreetly behind him. Now the Duke was here, she would allow no more visitors tonight. "I shall have wine brought up directly."

He passed through her dressing room into her bedchamber, and she followed, feet bare against the carpet. Unusually, for a man so disposed to talk, he remained silent, leaning against the door and observing her as she toyed with the lace around her bosom.

Still, he would not be like that for long; men weren't complex creatures. A little silence, a little softness, a little of her special sweetness, and they always opened themselves up to her.

"You always keep your rooms in such disarray, my dear," he said, his customary languid tone somewhat edged.

"Why, if I had known you were coming, I might have prepared them a little." She padded forwards to him and laid a hand on his arm. He glanced down at the contact, and at the diamond bracelet clasped around her wrist—a gift from another of her callers. "You may relax here," she said. "When you are with me, the outside world does not exist."

"A fanciful thought." With an impatient movement, he shook her off. "Reality is not so easily dissuaded."

"Then perhaps you should tell me your worries, Your Grace, and I might help. "

He laughed. "Help? You are in no position to help me, Juliet, no matter how I might wish it."

"But you do wish it?"

A knock at the door interrupted them, and her man laid a decanter of wine, with two glasses, on the table.

"I have no wish to talk," he said, sitting on the bed and tugging at the buttons of his waistcoat. "Not at present."

"I'll fetch you some wine," she said, not allowing her unease to penetrate her voice. Something was most definitely wrong; the Duke was not a man of purely carnal delights. Her company was, usually, worth more to him.

As she returned to the bedroom, she lingered in the doorway, watching him, the wine loosely clasped in her fingers. He glanced up to see her there and beckoned her impatiently forward. There was a distracted look in his eyes she didn't like, but she sauntered closer anyway, letting a smile curve her lips. "I believe you came here for a distraction?"

"Yes," he said curtly. "So distract me."

They came together with a little less than their usual passion, and when they finished, she handed him a goblet of wine, worry tightening her chest. Had he finally tired of her?

"Are you suitably distracted?" she asked.

"Momentarily." He shook his head and gazed at the burgundy liquid as though it held the answer to his problems. "I suppose I ought to warn you I will be temporarily detained."

Knowing better than to let the Duke see the possessiveness that threatened to grip her, she merely arched a brow. "Oh?"

"I'm getting married, and should take my bride for a brief tour of the country after we wed."

For a moment, the only sound was the spluttering of the candlelight. The Duke of Norfolk was getting married? To someone else?

Her hopes had never been properly articulated, not even to herself, but he was her longest standing lover and one of the most generous. She had thought that with enough time, she might encourage him to elevate her so he would not be obliged to lose her.

Instead, she was losing him .

"Really?" she said with a careless laugh. "I hadn't thought you the marrying kind."

"I'm not."

She trailed her fingers along his arm to his shoulder, savouring the feel of his muscles against her skin. "Then why pledge yourself to a girl you cannot care for?"

"Obligation." He took another sip before putting the goblet to one side. "She understands, I think, the reality of the situation between us."

"And that reality is?"

"That we will be married in name only—at least until I have need for an heir." He turned his gaze back to her and tugged one of her copper curls. "I have no intention of my marriage detracting from my usual life, Juliet, never fear."

Only it would. No longer would he be the carefree Duke that had graced her bed for so long. He would have a wife, whose demands on his time could not be denied. And who, moreover, would be sure to exact such demands. No woman was safe against his charms, and especially not a girlish debutante. She would be jealous and possessive, and he would no doubt appease her.

Juliet hated the girl already.

"And who might this lucky lady be?" she asked throatily, exploring the outline of his mouth with her nail. "The Season has many candidates. Have you chosen from among them?"

"The lady is Lady Theodosia Beaumont."

Juliet's expression darkened. Lady Theodosia was not personally known to her—there had been few occasions they might meet—but she knew of her. A slip of a girl with a pair of arresting blue eyes under a dark head of hair. The precise opposite of Juliet's ethereal charms.

"You surprise me," she said. "I thought her father was impoverished." Her tone was light, but a little of her bitterness seeped through. "Can she really match the great Duke? There are few women who can do that, I fancy."

His smile hardened. "I've known the family for many years. Their estate borders mine, and I have a great deal of respect for them."

"I'm sure I meant no offence."

He sat up, slipping free from her arms and ceaseless caresses. "Then you must learn not to give it."

"I am sorry," she said, pressing a kiss against the back of his shoulder. Every inch of her prickled with the injustice of having to apologise, but she kept the smile on her face. "I spoke in haste and without thought. If you desire to marry Lady Theodosia Beaumont, what right have I to comment on the match? I only wish you to be happy."

"And," he said dryly, "for my visits to continue."

"I would not be flesh and blood if I did not desire that."

"Then let me put your mind at rest—once I've returned from my honeymoon, we will continue the usual way of things."

She pressed another kiss to his back and wrapped her arms around his chest. "I can ask for no more," she said, though she was struck with the urge to cry—or perhaps rage. For now, however, she could do neither, so she merely pressed her chin against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

Later, she would consider what she could do to reclaim her Duke.

The marriage between Lady Theodosia Beaumont and the Duke of Norfolk was an appropriately lavish affair. After the vows, during which Theo's mother wept, they retired to the traditional wedding breakfast, and later to Norfolk House.

The Dowager Duchess had removed from the premises before the wedding, and Theo was now mistress of the great house. The housekeeper gave her a tour where she met all the staff and was regaled with a dizzying number of duties and names, and she did her best not to appear too overwhelmed. Being a duchess was very different from being the eldest daughter of an impoverished Earl, and she was now, for the first time, seeing precisely what would be expected from her. Nerves overset Theo, and she barely said two words to her new husband before they retired for the night. In separate rooms.

It was fortunate, she reflected, that she had no expectations from Nathanial. He had gone through with the wedding and she was safe now from the designs of the likes of Whitstable. That was all the duty required of him.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror as Betsy, her lady's maid, removed the heavy diamond necklace from around her neck—an heirloom from the Dowager—and laid out the nightgown. Her mother had taken her shopping before her marriage and bought a great many things Theo could see no use for. The flimsy nightgown, so very different from her usual cotton affairs, was one of them.

"There, Your Grace," Betsy said, placing the necklace inside its box. "That's everything. Will you require anything more?"

Although she knew her marriage to Nathanial saved her from a far worse fate, she half wished she could turn back time and still be in her childhood bed. Her reflection, too, showed a girl with dark hair curling to her shoulders and flushed cheeks. She did not have the poise expected of a duchess .

"That will be all," she said, flicking her gaze to Betsy's ruddy face. "Thank you."

Betsy bobbed a curtsy. "Your Grace."

Your Grace . That would take some getting used to, as would her marriage. To Nathanial.

Not, of course, that it would change too much. She would attend the same balls and parties, though with a little more freedom, and she would be granted more pin money than she knew what to do with. Nathanial had already outlined what she could expect from being his wife.

Theo turned her attention to the large bed. It was a grand affair, almost terrifyingly so, and she half felt she might lose herself amongst the wide expanse of mattress, tangling sheets, and piled pillows. It was a bed for a princess.

For a duchess.

Before she had a chance to investigate further, there was a knock at the door. Nathanial poked his head through. "I thought I saw your maid go downstairs," he said by way of greeting.

Theo stared at him in horror. The flickering candlelight illuminated his sharp cheekbones and mobile mouth. Now, more than ever, she understood the sonnets dedicated to his face alone.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, resisting the urge to wrap her arms around herself. She may be his wife now, but she was a single layer away from being naked. "I thought we agreed—"

"We did agree," he said, advancing further into the room and shutting the door behind him. "You may relax. I'm not here to steal your innocence."

Theo didn't precisely want to experience the act her mother had, vaguely, explained to her, but an emotion akin to disappointment settled in her gut. To compensate, she rose. His gaze darted down her body, and her hand, braced against the table, tightened. "If you're not here to share my bed," she said, "why are you here?"

A slight frown caught his brows as his gaze, once again, dipped, and found its way back to her face. "To talk, but perhaps this isn't the best time."

"Do you think we made the right decision?" she blurted.

He stepped closer, until he captivated her senses. He had no right being so tall—her brother Henry was the larger of the two men, but Henry wasn't here. There was only Nathanial and her, in her bedroom. As man and wife.

Goodness, Betsy had piled the fire far too high; she had not thought it was so hot. Resisting the urge to fan herself, she clasped her hands before her.

"To marry?" he asked. "Don't tell me you're having cold feet now."

"No." Her voice was oddly breathy, and she stepped back to create some space between them—space they needed, because for some unaccountable reason, she was far too aware of him . "Not cold feet exactly, but—"

"You fear I regret the match?"

Looking up at him, at the grey eyes that usually held so much amusement, she noted their seriousness. Their steadiness.

"Yes," she whispered.

He reached out and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. "Then fear not, my dear—you will prove a charming wife."

"And you a charming husband?"

His hand hesitated. "Do you wish me to be?" he asked at last.

She hardly knew what she wished. All she knew was when he stood in front of her as he did now, she longed for something . The air was no longer quite enough; she would suffocate without more.

His thumb brushed her cheekbone and her lips parted as she sucked in a breath. His gaze darted to her mouth. When he glanced up again, there was warmth in his eyes that hadn't been there before. Her knees felt distinctly wobbly.

"I should go," he said, retracting his hand. "Goodnight, Theo."

She ought to move, to clamber onto the large and awe-inspiring bed, but she couldn't quite coax her legs into action. And when Nathanial glanced back from the doorway, hesitating with one hand wrapped around the wood, she thought she saw the same confusion written across his face, as though something had just transpired between them—something as unexpected for him as it was new for her.

But instead of articulating his thoughts and putting a name to the sudden tension in the room, he merely shook his head and closed the door behind him as he left.