A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle (124 page)

“
No, ma’am, I must. That
would be most improper. His Grace would replace me on the spot if
he learned I wasn’t giving you the proper respect.”

“
Oh. Well, I suppose we
cannot have that, can we?”

Her new life could be worse, she knew.
If Peter hadn’t arrived when he did last night, Jane could well be
married to Lord Utley. That had been Utley’s plan, after all—though
Jane couldn’t fathom why he’d plotted such a thing. Surely that was
why Lady Plumridge had rushed up to catch them, though. What other
purpose could the gossipmonger have had for being in the family’s
quarters? If things had gone to Utley’s plan, surely Jane wouldn’t
be preparing to spend her wedding night alone.

She shivered. Her life
could be
far
worse.

Marriage to Peter might not turn out
to be as dreadful as she’d once imagined it to be. True, he was
leaving her in a state of nerves with his unexpected decision this
evening. Jane would almost rather have the deed done and over with.
At least then she wouldn’t wonder if there were some other reason
(an aversion to her, or perhaps anger at the circumstances?) he
wasn’t insisting she fulfill this particular duty.

And everyone knew how highly her
husband valued duty and responsibility.

“
There now, that should do,
ma’am.” Meg stood and returned the silver-plated brush to the
gilded vanity. “Lady Sophia sent a few things up for you, Your
Grace. Since you don’t have a trousseau, that is.”

When Meg turned around, she was
carrying a few colored gauzy articles—nightrails, most likely—and
coming toward Jane with them.

“
Thank you, Meg, but that
will be all for tonight, please.” The thought of having someone
help her into one of those things, even if the girl had seen her
before, didn’t sit well. Maybe because she knew no one else would
be seeing her in it. Certainly not her husband. Jane doubted she
would see him before they broke their fasts the next
day.

And by then, she intended to be fully
dressed.

Meg placed the items on a dressing
table and curtsied. “Yes, Your Grace.” Then she slid out the door
and padded silently away.

Jane dug through the armoire in her
dressing area until she found one of her old, comfortable, white
cotton nightrails. Once she had it on, she placed the new gowns
where it had been.

After taking a candlestick from the
dressing room, she slipped into her new bedchamber. The counterpane
had been turned down. Yet another thing Peter must have ordered
done, since Jane had finally broken Meg of that habit. Little
things like that, she preferred to do for herself.

It was obvious he didn’t expect her to
visit his bed tonight—or at least not to remain with
him.

Fine.

If he didn’t want her, she certainly
wouldn’t force herself on him.

Jane brushed away the tear falling
down her cheek. Drat. Crying was a highly inconvenient manner of
falling asleep.

But by the time she slipped beneath
the silken sheets, the dam had burst. Mr. Cuddlesworth leapt out of
his basket and onto the bed, then curled up on her back and kneaded
until she’d cried herself dry.

~ * ~

Peter slept in fits and starts that
night. The knowledge that Jane lay in the opposite chamber of his
suite burned at him. Nearly every time he woke, he was hard as
steel and dreaming of her. Which, he noted, was not exactly the
easiest manner of resting after his sleepless night last
night.

Only a couple of walls separated them.
It was torture.

When he awoke and discovered himself
grinding his hips against a pillow, he questioned his own decision
to allow Jane to decide when they would copulate. Celibacy with
Mary had been entirely too easy. Restraining himself from touching
Jane might yet kill him, if it went on too long. And if this
self-imposed celibacy, even in marriage, neglected to kill him, he
might resort to murder.

By the eighth time he woke, the sun
shone through the picture window in his chamber, peeking around the
edges of heavy drapes. There would be no more sleep for the
weary.

~ * ~

Peter had set his plan to woo Jane
into motion the day after their marriage.

He arranged for Cook to send up a
breakfast for them each morning, so they could dine alone together
in the sitting room. He instructed Mrs. Wilson, the housekeeper of
Hardwicke House, to assign an additional maid to see to Jane’s
needs, so that she would have one of her two available at all
times.

Then he met privately with his mother
and discussed which of the responsibilities that had previously
fallen on her shoulders in the running of Hardwicke House would be
transferred to his wife, since Jane should now be involved in such
affairs. They also discussed which of those numerous
responsibilities Peter would now take care of himself.

He scheduled time each afternoon to
receive guests with Jane, so as to be certain everyone who came
afforded her the respect her position as his duchess demanded, and
so she would not feel overwhelmed by her new social
obligations.

He escorted her to social
functions in the evenings—to the theater, the opera, to various
balls and musicales and the like—making certain to be visible at
her side, to fetch her lemonade, to assist her in every way
possible. Peter wanted there to be no doubt amongst the
ton
that he was enamored
with his wife.

It was all rather
exhausting.

And still, after nearly two weeks of
catering to her every want or need, she had neglected to come to
his bed.

His level of sexual frustration would
soon reach epic proportions.

Spending this amount of time in her
presence was certainly not helping matters any. He had come to
genuinely enjoy her company. Jane’s smile could light an entire
ballroom far better than hundreds of candles, and her laughter
could melt the heart of even the stodgiest of curmudgeons—as
evidenced by her effect upon old Rotheby, who had come with Alex
and Grace to visit his grandson and great-grandson in
Town.

But while she smiled and laughed
freely—and often—when they were with his mother and sisters or in
company, her joy fled when they were alone.

Peter began to think he was doomed to
fail, yet again, at creating a marriage based on love. Not from any
lack of effort. Nor from a lack of love on his part. Deuce take it,
somewhere along the way, he had gone and fallen head over ears in
love with his wife. Yet she loathed being in his company and
dreaded his touch.

A lesser man would forget about the
promise he had made to her. But that wasn’t Peter’s way.

Instead, he chose to redouble his
efforts at showing her of his love through his actions.

Eventually, he would wear her down.
Jane would come to him.

Peter had to believe it.

~ * ~

Jane’s new husband was driving her to
distraction. Throughout the two weeks since they married, he hadn’t
allowed her to lift a blessed finger.

Take this morning, for example. They
sat together in the downstairs drawing room, Peter on an wingback
chair near the window, and Jane across from him on the brocade sofa
with Mr. Cuddlesworth’s basket at her feet. Before they married,
Peter would have been dealing with his account ledgers and reports
on his estates in his library.

But today? Today he had them spread
out before him in the drawing room, so he could spend time with
her.

And what, one might wonder, was Jane
allowed to do while he did this? She would prefer to be meeting
with the housekeeper and discussing the schedule of rotation for
cleaning the various unused rooms of the house, or perhaps working
with some footmen to move the furniture from one room to another,
so as to make use of a different room.

Even if she couldn’t be performing one
of those tasks, she could be sewing a pretty new gown for Sarah, or
taking the children for a walk through the park.

Instead, she was relegated
to embroidery.
Useless
embroidery, she might add. One couldn’t very well wear a
swatch of embroidery to a ball, after all.

So much for his promise of giving her
some of her own responsibilities, so she wouldn’t feel so blasted
useless. Every time she turned around, a maid or footman was
rushing to assist her. Her responsibilities in overseeing the
running of Hardwicke House had been reduced to conferencing with
Cook each day about the menu for meals. Mrs. Pratt was still in
charge of the nursery, so Jane couldn’t even participate in rearing
Peter’s children without feeling like she was encroaching upon
someone else’s position.

Mama Hardwicke and her daughters had
moved to their new lodgings at Number Seven, Curzon Street earlier
in the week. Neil had yet to return from the country, but Peter
assured her that the youngest Hardwicke brother would secure some
bachelor lodgings as soon as he returned.

Jane wasn’t even granted the
responsibility of seeing after them and their needs.

The only thing she was allowed to do
beyond embroidery, it seemed, was pour the tea when they had
guests. Even with that, Peter would often rush to take the cups
from her and pass them about.

If all of that wasn’t enough, his lack
of insistence upon engaging in the marriage act had gone on for so
long she was certain that not only did he not love her, but he
couldn’t possibly even feel lust for her. The bit of lust she’d
assumed he felt from their previous encounters had all but faded,
leaving her with no alternative but to believe she’d only imagined
its existence in the first place.

She was a dismal failure as a
wife.

For all Jane knew, Peter felt she was
just as dismal a failure at being his duchess—hence his insistence
upon helping her with even the smallest of tasks, like passing
around the tea.

If those worries weren’t enough to
keep her awake at night (or cause her to cry herself to sleep, as
the case may be), Mr. Cuddlesworth had started acting rather
peculiar.

From the day they’d arrived at
Hardwicke House, her cat had latched on to Sarah. Jane didn’t mind.
He had always enjoyed children, so she was glad to see he had a new
friend. He still came to spend time with Jane, particularly in the
afternoons when she and the Hardwicke sisters would gather in the
downstairs drawing room to see their guests. At that point in the
day, the sun warmed the room, and cast sunbeams across the floor
where he could sleep. But otherwise, he stayed with Sarah—even at
night, on occasion.

But every night since their wedding,
Mr. Cuddlesworth had been sneaking into Jane’s chamber and
stretching himself out across her back, much as he had done as a
kitten. He would stay with her the entire night, and remain by her
side or on her lap the entire day. This behavior had continued
every day, without fail.

Sarah would occasionally come and
fetch him. Then she’d carry him off to the nursery to play with
her. But as soon as someone opened the door so he could escape, he
would dart out and search the house for Jane.

She hadn’t thought too much of it at
first. Things in Mr. Cuddlesworth’s life had changed drastically in
recent months, after all—much as they’d changed in Jane’s life. But
now, she worried that his old age was finally catching up with
him.

On this particular morning, Jane’s
spine bristled every time her husband “hemmed” or “hummed” about
something in his records. She jabbed her needle through the fabric
much harder than she intended, poking her finger in the
process.

“
Drat,” she muttered. She
pushed the fabric aside and looked down. Her finger was bleeding.
She put it in her mouth so the blood wouldn’t ruin her work or her
gown. Mr. Cuddlesworth opened his eyes for a brief moment and
purred at her.

Peter didn’t even glance up at her.
Good. With the way he’d been behaving toward her of late, he would
likely send for a doctor if he knew she was bleeding.

Spenser poked his head in the open
doorway. “Lord Neil, Your Grace.” Before the butler could step
aside and allow him entrance, Neil barreled through the
doorway.

“
Peter.” He hurriedly
inclined his head and struggled to catch his breath, as though he
had just run from halfway across Town. Then he turned to Jane and
repeated the gesture. “Your Grace.”

Good Lord, would everyone in her life
suddenly be calling her that? She supposed they would. Neil hadn’t
even stumbled over the title—he hadn’t even thought twice about
perhaps calling her Jane, as he had before. How
aggravating.

Neil returned his serious gaze to
Peter. “I need to speak with you. Urgently.”

“
About—er, about Carreg
Mawr?” her husband asked.

Carreg Mawr—was that his estate in
Wales? She couldn’t quite remember. He’d gone through a litany of
estates he owned one day as she sat doing her embroidery, telling
her all about them and when they might visit each. The name of the
place certainly sounded more Welsh than English though, so it
likely was.