Chapter 18

Dearest Duchess!

I knew you had a tendre for Peter Kent. I knew it! Ha! (Clermont says I am waking my cousins with my cackling. In truth he is only surly because he was wrong.)

— from Lady Faiza Greenlaw, Countess of Clermont, to Her Grace Selina Kent, Duchess of Stanhope

The bed must have been assembled in the ducal bedchamber. It was the only piece of furniture that had remained when Peter had moved into the Stanhope townhouse, likely explained by the fact that it was too large to fit out the door. It was a great heavy wooden thing that reminded Peter of an immense ship, its prow extending nearly to the opposite wall.

And in that huge boat of a bed, lapped by little mounded-up waves of bedclothes, lay Selina. His wife.

The linens—he'd had Humphrey iron them the day before—were crisp and white. They lay softly over her calves and ankles, twisted under her hips, then flared out around the long curve of her ribs and shoulder. She slept. She slept and he stood on the other side of the room, marveling at her.

He'd kissed that bare, luminous skin. Had licked across the curves of her thighs, cradled her delectable bum as he'd entered her. Once in the portrait gallery. Again in the bed. He'd tasted his way across her body and he thought there were perhaps one or two places he'd missed. He had the whole morning to remedy that.

He'd risen to go downstairs and fetch coffee for himself—tea for Selina, because he'd only ever seen her drink tea. He should go. He should go, or at least turn away, stop staring at her like a lovesick fool and put his damned trousers on.

Hang the coffee. He dropped the trousers he'd been holding and stepped back to the bed.

He sat beside her, and his weight caused the mattress to dip. She stirred, blinked open her eyes, and found him with a sleepy half smile. "Peter."

He found some knot of tension uncoiled in his chest at the sight of her face. Her smile, her eyes.

He thought perhaps she was happy to see him. He wanted her to be happy to see him. Almost as much as it terrified him.

If she was happy, there was something to lose. If she thought him more than a selfish idiot, he was bound to disappoint her in the end.

He leaned down wordlessly and kissed the tip of her long elegant nose. This , he thought. This he knew.

He kissed the corner of her mouth. He traced one finger down the side of her neck, and she shivered beneath his touch. "Good morning," he said to the freckle at the top of her shoulder.

She made a little squeak. "Peter. I must clean my teeth."

"Surely not. You're naked."

She laughed and squirmed, and he meant to let her go, but when he looked at her face, she was staring at him. Her eyes were bright as morning.

"You have this way of looking," she said softly, "as though you cannot see enough of me."

"I cannot." He lifted the rumpled sheet, smoothed it over her bare shoulders, then slid his hands down slowly, caressing the sides of her breasts, her rib cage, the curve of her waist through the thin linen. A flush bloomed on her cheeks again. "I can't touch enough of you either. I'd thought to spend the morning on it. Touching you. Tasting you. But mere morning won't suffice."

She lifted her chin, exposing the column of her throat, so he placed his lips beneath the line of her jaw. A kiss. A small bite.

"What is it that you smell of? I can't tell you how long I've been wanting to know. Years, I think."

She laughed shakily, one hand coming up to cup the back of his head. "My soap. Oil of bergamot."

He paused in his attention to her collarbone. "You smell of tea?"

"I am sorry to say that bergamot is a very sour orange."

He ran his tongue along the valley beneath the delicate rise of bone. "Impossible. You smell of spice and sweetness. Perhaps it's your skin itself." He couldn't help himself. Her nipple was inches from his mouth and he found it through the sheet with his lips.

Selina gasped and arched her back, pressing into his mouth.

She wanted, too, it seemed. Christ, he was so goddamned ready for her. But slow. He must go slowly.

He pulled back and framed one breast in the curve between his thumb and forefinger. "You have," he said conversationally, "stupendous bubbies."

She twisted her fingers into his hair. "Don't tease."

"I assure you I am not. I've spent a great deal of time thinking on them."

She blinked at him, dark brows drawing together. "I have seen engravings, Peter. They are too small for larking."

Now it was his turn for bemusement. "For… what?"

"For larking!" At his expression, she paused. "Is that… not a common activity?"

"I couldn't say. I don't know what that is."

"To put a man's member between one's breasts and—" She gazed up at him, her cheeks growing pink. "Never mind."

He could not speak. All the blood had drained from his head.

She was still talking. "Blast it all. Belvoir's. So hard to know what is usual and what is not." She shot him a look of concern. "But… flogging. That's surely not usual. Is it?"

" Flogging? " Evidently he could speak, though his voice seemed to have attained an unusual register.

Selina ground her teeth. "No, obviously not. Damn you, Jean Laventille, and your peculiar interests!"

He tried manfully not to laugh. "Are you interested in flogging, wife?"

"Of course not!" Her flush deepened. "I suppose I don't know."

"Oh my God." He gathered her into his arms and fell back onto the bed. "I beg you. Tell me every last thing you've seen in image or text that's intrigued you."

"I… I am not sure… there's time."

He groaned. "You cannot imagine what you do to me."

One long-fingered hand found its way in between their bodies and stroked up his thigh, stopping just short of his cock. "I have some idea."

"Mmph," he muttered, and kissed her, quick and hard and deep, trying to recall why he needed to slow down.

"Peter," she said, when he came up for air. "Last night. In our bedsport"—she hesitated—"is that quite the right word?"

"It is the best word. But I urge you to try out all the words you know, just for comparison."

"Absurd man." But her rum-colored eyes were soft. "In our bedsport, why did you withdraw? Is that your preference?"

He paused, startled. "I—don't know. I doubt it. But we had never discussed children, Selina. I didn't want to assume. Do you want to discuss it now?"

"I… oh." She looked surprised but not displeased. "I suppose I just presumed—you are the duke. You must want an heir?"

"Not especially." He had been a duke for more than a month now, but he had never expected the title. Never wanted the title and felt no particular attachment to the dukedom. "Do you want to have children, then?"

Her dark eyelashes were working rapidly up and down. "I'm not sure. I… don't know."

"Well, then," he said, pausing to kiss her before continuing. "We'll wait. Until we both are sure."

And then he pressed her back against the mattress and kissed her again.

Several hours later, Selina hummed as she fastened her earbobs. Humming! It was outrageous, really. She had only Peter to blame—Peter, and his tendency to whistle at inappropriate moments. Peter, and his infectious joy.

She kept on humming as she buttoned her gloves and slipped out of her dressing room. Peter was already in his study, working on his next parliamentary speech. She had plans to drop by Laventille's office later in the afternoon—ostensibly to discuss purchases for the Stanhope residence's plundered library, but in fact to talk about the print run she needed of Walter Scott's upcoming novel and to discuss the recent rumors connecting Nicholas to Belvoir's.

At the bottom of the stairs, she stopped in delight. "Lydia!"

Humphrey was ushering Lydia Hope-Wallace into the sitting room, and Selina mentally added a stop at the registry office to her afternoon schedule. Staff—they desperately needed staff. Humphrey and Lydia both paused at the sound of her voice.

"Perhaps the dining room," she said to Humphrey. It was, at the moment, the only room on the lower level with chairs. She tried not to laugh at Lydia's expression of bemusement as they seated themselves nearly knee-to-knee at the square dining table.

"I'm so pleased to see you!" she said instead. "You should have sent a note—I was just on the cusp of leaving, and then I would have missed you entirely."

"Selina." Lydia's voice was low and grave, and Selina's eyes snapped to her face. "I wouldn't have come the morning after your wedding if it were not urgent."

"What's wrong? Is it your mother? Has she made further demands of you? Oh, Lyddie—"

"It's not me," Lydia said. "I'm not here about myself."

Selina blinked. "Oh. I'm glad. What's wrong, then?"

Lydia looked down at her lap. She shifted the large netted reticule that she'd been carrying, then lifted the flap. She withdrew from its depths a book bound in bright emerald green.

Selina felt her heart thump hard against her chest. She tried to fix her face into an expression of casual interest. "A book?"

"Yes," Lydia said. "A Belvoir's book, as you know perfectly well."

"Have there been new rumors about Nicholas?" The tension that had simmered inside her these last two days knotted tight beneath her breastbone. "Is that why you're here?"

"No. At least, not that I've heard of. But you, Selina—you are a member of Belvoir's, are you not?"

"You know I am not. I've a membership with the Royal Colonnade." She did. The Royal Colonnade Library was her primary competitor.

"Indeed. But we've talked about the Venus catalog, have we not?"

"Yes, of course. Most intriguing."

Lydia's blue eyes held her gaze. "And you have never considered becoming a member yourself? That strikes me as… not at all like you, Selina."

Selina felt hot and cold at once. "I never felt the need."

Lydia tossed the green-bound book down onto the smooth surface of the table between them. "Hang it, Selina, I know it is you!"

She could not even try to deny it. Not to Lydia, who was the cleverest woman of her acquaintance, who knew everything .

It had always only been a matter of time.

"How?" It came out a whisper.

"For heaven's sake, Selina, I used my head. It was not so very hard to figure out, not after I saw how upset you were at the dressmaker's shop two days ago. I asked myself why Belvoir's would have been connected to the Duke of Rowland in the first place—goodness knows that his political projects are not the same as the ones promoted by the Venus catalog." The blue of Lydia's eyes was dark with agitation. "He owns it, doesn't he? The Belvoir's property."

"No," Selina said hoarsely. "Will does."

Lydia's lips compressed. "Of course. Of course . He has been out of the country for years now, so they must have attributed the running of the library to Nicholas instead. But as soon as I thought about it for more than a moment, I knew it could not be Nicholas. You, Selina. You run Belvoir's. You started the Venus catalog."

"I did." She gritted her teeth, then forced herself to continue. "I do. After Ivy Price and the revelation of her pregnancy. After I learned about the lords and their mistresses and their wives. I was so tired of feeling like I had no control over my life. So I… I took control. Will bought Belvoir's for me. I ran it."

Lydia's eyes had gone bright and wet, and for a moment Selina thought she was furious. And then she realized Lydia was hurt , and the knot of anguish inside her tightened further.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Lydia asked. "Didn't you trust me? Did you really think I would not keep your secret?"

"I didn't want you to be disappointed in me. I didn't want you to hate me."

"Did you truly think I would? "

"No. I—I don't know. I was afraid, Lyd! I couldn't tell anyone but Will."

"And your husband? "

"He knows," Selina said miserably. "I told him before we wed."

"There's that, at least."

Her brain didn't seem to be working properly. She could see the grain of the oak table before her, a twisting pattern of dark and light. She pressed her hand against it, her fingertips flattening against the table's wooden lines.

Lydia had figured it out. How long did she have until more people did? Until everyone in the ton knew?

She needed more time. Just a bit more time—just until the guardianship hearing was over. And then everything could fall apart.

"Selina." Lydia's voice was gentler now, and Selina looked up to find that Lydia's eyes were no longer wet with tears. "I understand. Why you did it."

It was almost too much to hope for. Selina wanted to ask her to say it again, but only swallowed hard against the desire to ask for comfort. She did not deserve it.

"I remember how upset you were when Ivy…" Lydia trailed off. "When Ivy." Her eyes sharpened. "Do you pay for her house? In Gloucestershire—near your family's country estate. I cannot believe I did not see it before."

"Yes. Well, Will does, officially. I simply arranged it."

"You… simply arranged it." Lydia laughed, amused and slightly harsh. "You arranged to finance a single pregnant woman's living—presumably for the rest of her life. As you arranged the running of a circulating library and the re-education of the female half of the ton ."

"Yes."

"Good Lord, Selina. How did you even have time?"

"Honestly? I dislike French, watercolors, and needlework. Once I mastered dancing, there seemed to be plenty of hours to fill."

Lydia's eyebrows rose. And then she started to laugh.

Selina stared at her in horror.

"Oh God"—Lydia pressed her palms to her eyes, half bent over her lap—"I am so sorry. I know this isn't funny. But only you would turn up your nose at embroidery and resolve to overturn society in its stead."

"There's nothing wrong with embroidery," Selina protested inanely. "I am simply very poor at it."

Lydia plucked up her now-empty reticule and threw it at her. "For heaven's sake, Selina. What are you going to do?"

"I have to find out who is spreading the rumors," she said. "Whether it's Alverthorpe or another peer or someone else entirely. I have to stop them."

"But the children," Lydia protested. "Stanhope's brother and sister. It will not look well for Stanhope, Selina, if this comes out."

It would be a nightmare—her worst fears coming true.

Peter had come to her in the first place because he wanted her help in securing the guardianship. That was what she had to offer him. That was what she was good at. That was the only thing that had allowed her to permit herself to marry him—her certainty that she would be able to maintain her deception long enough for the lord chancellor to rule in Peter's favor.

"I will pay them," she said, half-frantic. "I will find out who it is and pay them for their silence. The hearing is less than two weeks away—I will make it worth their while to keep it to themselves."

Lydia sighed. "You have an answer for everything."

"I don't," Selina said miserably. "I wish I did."

She considered for a moment going to Rowland House to unburden herself to her brother—but no. No. She needed to come to him with a plan in place—with the situation well in hand. She could not fling her problems in his direction any more than she had already.

Lydia tucked a coppery curl behind her ear. "You know I am beside you, yes? Whatever you need."

"I know. That means—a great deal to me." She pushed against the notched wood of the table, needing the way it grounded her. "More than I deserve."

But when Lydia left the dining room, Selina did not stand. She did not leap to her feet and plunge into reckless action. She stared at her bare fingers against the wood and heard her unsteady breath echo in the silent room.

If she did not succeed—

She almost could not make herself think of it. If she was not able to find out who was behind the rumors—if she could not persuade them to keep silent—if somehow the truth of her involvement came out before the hearing—

And yet she had to think of it. She needed to make a plan.

How would Peter feel if her secret came out now, when the guardianship hearing was so close at hand? He would be crushed—he would blame her—

But no. She did not think he would blame her. And that was worse, somehow. That she would be the means of ruining his happiness, and that he would try to forgive her for it.

It would be unbearable, to disappoint him that way.

She thought about Ivy Price, and the house Will had bought for Ivy and her son in Gloucestershire.

They could do it again. If the scandal broke before the guardianship hearing, she could leave Peter and the children, buy a house as far away as she could manage—in Cornwall, perhaps, or Wales. They could have the marriage annulled. Peter could denounce her publicly and perhaps manage to avoid the worst of the damage.

Things could never be the same between them. No more openhearted declarations, no more easy Kent grins. Even if he did not intend to resent her after the scandal broke, he would not be able to help it.

It would be better to make a clean break. He might not like it—he might not agree at first. But the children were more important. The children were the most important thing, and he would have to accept her plan, because his guardianship meant more to him than anything else in the world.

Her fingers were blurry, and she stared hard down at her hands until her sight cleared. And when it had—when her breath in her ears sounded normal—she got to her feet.

She needed to write to Will. She needed to look at her accounts and her membership rolls and perhaps write to her man of business about Cornish cottages for ruined ladies. She meant to try everything she possibly could to prevent the truth from getting out before the guardianship hearing. But if she failed and the scandal broke anyway, she needed to be prepared.

And if the thought of leaving Peter—of leaving him alone in this big empty house—splintered something inside her, she would do it anyway if she had to. There was no other choice.