At the Duke’s Pleasure (2 page)

Marsden Manor
Nottinghamshire, England
January 1811

L
ady Claire Marsden drew her dark blue woolen shawl tighter over her shoulders and thought about adding an extra log to the fire. She would have liked to light a candle as well to better see the fine stitches in her embroidery, but Papa frowned on the use of candles during the day. Not because the household couldn’t afford them. Quite the reverse actually, since the Earl of Edgewater was a wealthy man. But he abhorred waste of any kind, and the burning of candles in daylight hours was chief on his list of forbidden indulgences—even on dim, dreary winter afternoons, such as this one.

Snipping off the end of a thread with a scissors, she listened with half an ear to her sisters bickering.

“Give me back that lace! I’m trying to trim my hat.”

“Try all you like,” taunted fourteen-year-old Nan. “But it shall do nothing to improve the ugly thing. I’ve seen canine rectums that had a prettier shape and color.”

“Did you hear what she just called my bonnet?” demanded Ella. “She said my velvet hat looks like a…a…a dog’s bottom! How dare you, Nan Marsden. How dare you say such a horrid thing to me.”

The younger girl smirked at her sixteen-year-old sister as she danced around the family sitting room holding the stolen lace high above her head. “Can I help it if you have wretched taste? Truly, you should spare all our eyes and toss that monstrosity in the fire. The brown color alone is enough to put one in mind of—”

“Why, you little fiend.” Reaching out, Ella made a grab for the lace and bumped into an end table instead, nearly oversetting the vase on top.

“All right, you two, that is quite enough,” Claire admonished. “And you’d best not let Mama hear such talk or you’ll both be scrubbing the taste of soap off your tongues for a week. Now, Nan, apologize to your sister for your rude remarks and give her back her lace.”

“But Claire—” Nan protested.

“No buts. Apologize now.”

With a grumble, Nan did as she was told. Begrudgingly, Ella accepted her younger sister’s words of regret, giving a stiff nod as she reclaimed her property.

Claire bent her blond head over her stitchery and hid a smile. “As for that bonnet, Ella,” she remarked a moment later. “You really could do much better. It’s woefully in need of a proper burial.”

“I don’t much care for it either,” Ella confessed, “but Papa won’t give me the money for a new one. You know how he is about allowances and I’ve already spent mine this quarter. It’s this or nothing.”

Claire knew the feeling only too well. She was considering alternate possibilities to suggest to her sister when a knock sounded on the door.

“Excuse me, miss, but a messenger just come with a letter,” the servant explained with a quick curtsey. “Thought I ought ter bring it up direct-like.”

“Lady Edgewater is lying down in her room. You may leave it over on the table and I shall see she receives it directly.”

“Oh, but it ain’t fer her ladyship. ’Tis addressed to you, Lady Claire.”

“Me?”

Normally Claire didn’t receive a great many letters, and none by messenger that she could recall. Curious, she reached out a hand for the missive.

The first thing she noticed was the elegant vellum paper and the thick red seal affixed on the reverse. Her heart beat faster as she stared at the design with its three overlapping heraldic shields hardened diagonally into the wax.

Fighting a sudden urge to tremble, she forced herself to flip the letter over. And there it was, her name and direction penned in a rarely seen, but never forgotten, hand.

His
hand—the flawless script flowing with a dark sophistication that made all the memories come flooding back at once.

What very few of them there might be
, she mused with a rueful tilt of her lips.

So, is my time up, then? Has my summons finally arrived?

Breaking open the seal, she scanned the contents and found her answer.

“Who’s it from, Claire?”

Her sister’s innocent question shattered her reverie, her head coming up with an almost guilty jerk. “Oh…um…no one. No one in particular, that is.”

Unless, by particular, you mean the man to whom I’ve been betrothed for nearly the whole of my one-and-twenty years
.

Growing up, she’d always known two things. First, that as the eldest daughter she was expected to always do her duty. And second, that someday she would become the Duchess of Clybourne.

Her sisters knew about the arrangement, of course; the entire family did. Every so often, the topic would arise and be discussed for a brief while before it faded into obscurity once again. And as the years had gone by, she’d been content with the arrangement.

But now he had written to her.

Now everything was going to change.

Ella gave her a quizzical look, and Nan as well. But she didn’t want to talk about it. She couldn’t, having learned long ago to lock away her feelings on this particular topic.

Still, the girls were clearly waiting for her to say more. Fingers tightening on the paper, she shoved the letter into the cushions at her hip. “Ella, I had a thought about your bonnet. Why do you not simply borrow one of mine? You can use your lace to remake the style entirely and no one will ever suppose it’s anything but new.”

“Really?” A huge smile lit her sister’s face, her attention instantly diverted. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. I’ll even give you a length of my pink silk ribbon. Now why don’t you and Nan run along to my room and pick out the one you’d like.”

“Any of them?” Nan chirped. “Any except your new chip straw, that is.”

“Even my chip straw, if that is the one Ella prefers.”

Ella paused for a long moment, then raced across the room to envelop Claire in a fierce hug. “Oh, you’re so wonderful! The very best of sisters. And not to worry, your chip straw is safe.”

Claire laughed, then shooed them out.

When she could no longer hear their footfalls, or the staccato rhythm of their excited chatter, she reached again for the letter. Smoothing it out, she reread the words, pausing on the most important passage:

A fortnight. A mere two weeks that would pass by in a flash, and then Edward Byron would be here.

The duke was coming to claim his bride.

You don’t have to do this, you know
.

The words repeated themselves in his head as Edward Byron, tenth Duke of Clybourne, drove his curricle up the country lane that led to the Earl of Edgewater’s estate.

Oh, but I do
, he thought in reply, barely aware of the winter-dormant fields that surrounded him on both sides, or the trees that stretched their bare limbs over the frozen earth like clusters of dark, bony fingers.

The sunny blue skies overhead were what had tempted him to ignore the January temperatures and drive himself today, rather than relying upon the wiser—and far warmer—option of traveling in his coach-and-four. His need for solitude had taken preeminence—the cold barely seeping through his heavy black greatcoat, leather gloves or hat, as he sped toward his destination.

Additionally, driving himself provided a soothing measure of distraction—one he found himself uncharacteristically in need of today.

“You realize, sweetheart, that you aren’t obligated to honor this betrothal,” his mother had told him a few days ago after learning of his plans to go through with the decades-old promise. “This was your father’s doing and I have never approved. As much as I loved my dear Robert, he was wrong to force this arrangement on you two children.”

“I’m three-and-thirty, Mama,” Edward replied. “Hardly a child now. I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” she questioned in a soft voice, concern dimming the clear green of her eyes. “And what of this girl? What of Lady Claire? Even after all these years, the pair of you are scarcely more than strangers. How many times have you even met her? Once? Twice?”

“Thrice,” he defended, deciding not to mention that the first time had been as children and the last occasion when she’d been a girl of sixteen.

“I implore you to think about this before you proceed,” Ava Byron had continued. “Consider how this will affect not only your life, but hers.”

He had thought about it—a very great deal, in point of fact—spending the past several months mulling over the advantages and disadvantages of proceeding with the marriage.

As a boy, he’d reviled the idea of the match. As a young man, he’d chosen to ignore it altogether. But now that he was mature, he could see the merit of his father’s actions—no matter how high-handed they might have been. In the end, he’d decided that his father had been right, and that Lady Claire Marsden was the most logical, most expedient choice of bride.

She had an excellent pedigree, for one. She was pretty and—if past observation was to be relied upon—gracious and biddable, even if a bit shy. She carried herself well and had been trained from birth in the duties that would be required as his duchess. She was reported to be in excellent health and should be able to provide him with robust sons.

In return, he would provide her with a comfortable life—more than comfortable, since he was one of the wealthiest men in the country. With him, she would never want for anything.

As for love? Affection would come with familiarity, he was sure. And if it did not? Well, theirs would be no worse than most Society marriages, based on mutual respect and lineage.

It was true that two of his younger brothers had recently fallen in love and settled into extremely happy marriages. Cade and Jack were deuced lucky, he judged. That or foolish, since in spite of his admiration for their choices of bride, he didn’t know if he cared for the idea of ever letting himself be so completely vulnerable to another person. Of opening his heart and mind to someone else and giving her that kind of power over him.

Then too was the unassailable fact that out of the literally hundreds of women he’d met over the years—and the more exclusive number with whom he’d chosen to be intimate—he’d never met a woman he couldn’t walk away from. A woman he couldn’t easily forget.

No, since his title required him to take a bride, he reasoned she might as well be Lady Claire. It’s what his father had wished. What her father still wished. And what duty demanded.

As for Claire herself, he didn’t think it was conceit that led him to believe she’d always liked him. Based on her clear affection for him as a child, as well as the rapt glances she’d given him the last time they’d met, she should be ready, even eager, for the long-awaited match.

Drawing his horses to a stop in front of the earl’s sprawling Tudor mansion, he realized he would very shortly find out.

“He’s here, he’s here!” Claire heard Nan exclaim, as her sister hurried into her bedchamber in a breathless rush. Ella followed at a far more demure pace, although her face shared Nan’s excitement.

“The duke’s in with Papa now,” Nan continued. “Mama says you’re to come down to the drawing room as soon as may be, so as not to keep him waiting.”

No
, Claire mused wryly, as she returned to gazing out of her window.
Heaven forbid we should keep His Grace waiting. After all, he is the only one permitted that particular luxury.

But she hadn’t needed Nan to inform her of his arrival. She’d been standing at the window when he’d alighted from his curricle. Her pulse had pounded at the sight of him, unable to help but notice, even from a distance, that he looked every inch as tall, dark and urbane as ever. The past five years had done nothing to lessen his devastating good looks. If anything, they appeared to have improved upon them. But she supposed she would have to verify that for herself once the two of them were standing in the same room together again.

She smoothed a hand over one of her best gowns—a long-sleeved, pale blue velveteen with navy ribbons at the high, empire waist and lace on the cuffs and collar. Then, taking a deep inhalation, she turned from the window. “Wish me luck.”

Both girls smiled and moved to give her a hug. “Luck!” they called.

But somehow, as she left her sisters behind and descended the staircase, she didn’t think the nature of their wishes was quite the same as her own.

Inside the drawing room fifteen minutes later, she was listening with only half an ear to her mother’s harmless chatter when the duke appeared in the doorway. Thankfully, she was already seated, otherwise, she feared her knees might have betrayed her. With her heart beating fast and her stomach quivering, she glanced up and met his intense midnight blue gaze.

As she had suspected earlier when she’d glimpsed him through her bedroom window, Edward Byron was still the handsomest man she’d ever met. His face appeared as though it had been sculpted by a master’s hand, with a smooth forehead, straight nose and elegant cheekbones that tapered down to a strong, square, almost rugged jawline and chin. His lips were nicely angled as well and utterly masculine—the lower one slightly fuller than the top, with a tilt that was devastating when he smiled.

His hair grew thick and dark as rich mahogany wood, while his brows lay like heavy slashes over his penetrating eyes—giving him an appearance that was either fierce or kind depending upon his mood. As for his physique, he was blessed with broad shoulders, a strong chest and long, well-muscled arms and legs.

Yet it was the way he held himself that gave him a distinguished air. It’s what came of being a duke, she supposed. Then again, perhaps it was Edward Byron himself, since she knew of no one else who carried himself with such natural grace and confident assurance. A leader by birth and ability, he commanded whatever room he entered. Without even trying, he commanded this one now.