The Duke of Courtland sat at dinner with his new duchess thinking about sordid, lascivious things. This created a rather uncomfortable situation, since his mother the dowager sat at his other side. He and Harmony had been wed a week now, and still the briefest glance at his wife awakened the savage in him. The smallest movement or casual touch made him want to rip off her clothes and press her back on the table and rut on her wildly. His mother would not have approved.
Court had intentionally limited contact with Harmony in the weeks before their wedding for this reason—she stole his control. Not maliciously, of course. She drew it away from him with glances and stares, with smiles and the charming, exuberant things she said. Their wedding night had nearly killed him. The blood on the sheets might have come from his own uncivilized heart beating so hard for her in his chest. He had sensed, of course, that his Goddess of Chaos would offer him more pleasure than the typical English miss, and she had. More passion, more questions, more uninhibited participation than he could have hoped.
He had lain with her every night since, and burned for her in the daytimes in between. When he came to her at night she professed to long for him, and afterward she clung to his shoulders so he could not leave her bed. His whole life had become those naked hours, her warm, soft body beneath him and beside him. Her kisses, her touches. Her sighs. At some point, he would have to regain control over his behavior. When he grew used to her, perhaps, inured to her charms.
But he had the terrible suspicion he would never get used to her, and never really have enough of what she gave. He had a feeling she was going to move him from lust to veritable voraciousness, and what then? He would behave shamefully, doing things to her no proper man should do to his wife. Worse, she would probably urge him on with her little moans and groans.
Then there was her unconcerned acceptance of his need to spank her, to play with her bottom and wallop it scarlet. All along he had nurtured some desire to spank his future wife, but he’d never believed it might actually happen without Gwen fleeing back to her papa’s arms. Harmony showed no intention to flee. Of course, he had not really punished her yet, aside from the episode in Newcastle which had been an abrupt, flustered kind of session. He wondered how she would react the first time he truly punished her for some offense. He wondered if he would be able to punish her at all.
He fumbled his silverware with a clatter. His mother made a harrumph of a sound as Harmony glanced up at him. He looked back at her, appreciating how much she’d already changed in the short course of their marriage. She was dressed formally for dinner in an ice blue silk gown, the muted hue bringing out the depth of her eyes. His family’s diamonds glittered at her neck. The sparkle forced his gaze down to the tempting expanse of her décolletage before he managed to snap it back up to her pretty face.
Yes, he could. For her benefit, he would punish her if he had to.
His mother’s tsk reminded him he was staring at her like a besotted swain. Harmony cleared her throat and put her hands in her lap.
“Is the dessert not to your liking?” he asked.
She sighed and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I misused the utensils at some point.” She gestured to her setting. “I have nothing left with which to eat.”
Court felt some sympathy for her. Formal dinner involved a boggling array of silverware. He beckoned a footman with a glance and an arched brow.
“Her Grace requires an additional dessert spoon.”
If his servants were at their best, they would have noted her lack of spoon and rectified it silently. He would have to speak to the head butler later, he thought, rubbing his forehead whilst staunchly ignoring his mother’s glare.
“It is of no consequence whatsoever,” he murmured to Harmony as the footman returned with a single silver spoon on a tray. Harmony took it and stabbed at her pudding.
“You needn’t slaughter it,” his mother said. “Just eat it now that you have your spoon. Or leave the table, if you cannot be civil.”
Court held up a silencing hand to the dowager. His wife stared at the pudding, her face like stone as he reached and patted her hand. “If you are finished eating, you may be excused.”
She pushed back and remembered almost too late to turn and wish them good evening. She held her back stiffly as she walked out. As soon as the doors were closed, he turned to his mother.
“I would appreciate it if you would refrain from scolding my wife. She is a duchess, not a child.”
“She was poking at her pudding like an ill-mannered infant.”
“Like a frustrated dinner guest. Must you glare at her and make her feel uncomfortable? This is her home now. Her table. Her family. If you cannot soften your heart toward her then perhaps you should take dinner in your room with Mrs. Lyndon.”
His mother narrowed her eyes. The battle lines had been drawn; this was only another skirmish in the series.
“Perhaps I shall dine in my room,” she sniffed. “She disturbs me so I cannot digest my food properly. And the way she stands up and leaves when she is finished! I cannot imagine how she was raised.”
“She stood up and left because I excused her. She was not feeling well.”
The old woman blanched. “Tell me she is not already increasing. She could not be so gauche.”
Court coughed into his napkin until he could compose himself, then scowled at his mother. “You’ve begged me to provide an heir for nearly a decade now, and now you complain?”
“If a babe arrives too soon after the wedding there will be talk.”
“There is already talk. There has been talk since the beginning. At any rate, she did not flee the table because she’s increasing. She fled because you persist in being rude to her.”
“I, rude? You will call me rude when you ogle her throughout dinner each and every night? It is sickening to witness, if you must know the truth.”
“Can you not find it in your heart to be happy for us? To be pleased that we suit so well?”
“How can you believe that you suit well?”
“We suit, mother. As much as that galls you, it cannot be changed.”
His mother desisted, stabbing at her pudding in much the manner Harmony had. “I wish I could be happy for you, but all I see is the Courtland name attached to that…that…oddity. I only wonder why you allowed yourself to be trapped by a prospect so far below you.”
“She is not a prospect, mother, she is a person. And it makes no matter now if she is a prince’s daughter or a commoner’s—I wed her. She is my wife. She is charming and intelligent in conversation. I find her beautiful and kind of heart.”
“Beautiful! Kind of heart!” His mother spat the words as if they were condemnations. “My son, are you so besotted you cannot see? What you feel for her is infatuation. Inappropriate fascination which shall fade and leave you with a very unsuitable partner for the rest of your life.”
Court wanted to argue, to set her down with a few choice words, but some part of him feared his mother was right. The intensity of lust and desire for his wife was not the stuff of steady marriages, but rather the way a man might go on with a torrid
affaire de coeur
. He tried to picture Harmony at state dinners, at society gatherings where sharp eyes and ears watched for every gossip-worthy shortcoming. He pinched the bridge of his nose and slid his hands down his face.
“She is my
wife
, mother.” He kept repeating it, because it was the only thing with which she couldn’t argue.
“I am aware she is your wife. There has been enough mockery and laughter to remind me of that.”
“What matter if people mock and laugh?” he said, straightening up again. “She is a duchess, and must therefore be shown respect.”
“Society will show her respect as far as they must, but she will never win their true consideration. I promise you she won’t.”
“I promise you she will,” he countered stubbornly. “In time.”
“Bah. There is no time. She must be brought up to standard by spring, or I swear we will not host the ball. I shall not blush and apologize all evening for her antics. I will not subject the Courtland name to the derision of the
ton
just as the season gets under way.”
“We shall open the house as we do every year,” Court said, standing with temper. “And Harmony will play the part of my duchess perfectly. She shall be transformed into the picture of civility. Even you will be obliged to say so.”
“Hmph.”
“And you will apologize to me then, mother, for speaking of her so unkindly, and to Harmony too.”
“Hmph,” she said again. “You have less than five months to enact this transformation.”
Court shrugged. “She will take but a month or two to learn the way of things. She is exceptionally bright. And she loves me,” he added a bit childishly. “She will wish to please me.”
“Love,” his mother muttered.
He bowed to her. “Good evening. Enjoy the rest of your dinner.”
An unmannerly exit, but it was better than staying to argue with her. From the dining room, he strode to his wife’s room. Her lady’s maid answered his knock, curtsied and let him in. He looked about for Harmony and found her settled in a chair in the corner with a book.
“Leave us,” he said to the servant, his gaze fixed on his wife.
The woman mumbled some niceties and took herself off. At the sound of his voice, his wife sat up straighter and closed the book in her lap. It was a large volume, some historical tome, no doubt, but it hadn’t yet worked its necessary magic and erased the tight expression from her face. Her dinner finery was gone, replaced by a pale yellow velvet dressing gown. Her hair was loose, a halo of flaxen locks around her head. She stood to face him with the book clasped against her front.
“I apologize for giving up,” she said. “Was the duchess put out that I left?”
He crossed to her with a sigh. “You are the duchess now. You mustn’t worry what she thinks.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “No, you should worry what she thinks in some matters, but there is no cause to come undone and storm away over mismanaging your dinner spoons.”
“It isn’t only the spoons,” she said. “It’s everything I do, every day. Wearing the wrong dress for luncheon or bringing up the wrong topics of conversation, or speaking out of turn to Lord Galvin in the park.”
“Lord Galvin will recover,” Court said with a frown. “In my opinion, he is far too tightly wound.”
“But don’t you see? It’s always something. Can I not just hide away from everyone? Then we could all be content.” She reached to stroke his starched cravat. “Can I not just stay here in your home and make
you
happy?”
Oh, the images that brought to mind. He arrested her softly tracing finger before he lost his ability to think. “You know you cannot. It would be enough for me…God help me…but…” He gritted his teeth against the longing in her gaze. “I should like nothing better, but I am a public figure and you are my duchess. You cannot hide.”
“But I’m not what they want,” she cried, covering her face with her hands. “I never will be.”
“Who says so?” He drew her hands away and forced her gaze to his. “You are too stubborn to be intimidated. You must not say ‘I cannot.’ You must try. You know, there was a time I believed I would make you the world’s worst husband, but I married you anyway.”
“Because of my muddling,” she interjected morosely.
He silenced her with a finger to her lips. “The matter of ‘why’ no longer signifies. I had to become your husband, and I decided to try very hard to make you a good husband, to provide security and comfort to you. I didn’t wish you to be disappointed in me.”
“Oh, Court,” she said, her mood softening. “I don’t want to disappoint you either.”
“Then you must set yourself to the task of this marriage and do your very best. Certainly you will have a lot to learn to be a proper duchess, but I daresay you will come to be quite excellent at it. You shall be so lofty and shining I’ll be a mere shadow at your side. ‘Where is the duke?’ everyone will ask. ‘He seems to have disappeared completely.’”
She laughed at his animated portrayal of the scene. “You could never be in my shadow,” she said. “Even if I were the best duchess ever. You are too grand and tall, anyway.” As she said this, she clambered up on her reading chair and placed her arms on his shoulders. He ought to chide her and tell her to get down. The chair was a fine Welsh piece, one of his mother’s favorites. But he did not tell her to get down. She moved her hands up his shoulders and back down to his upper arms, boldly taking his measure. Her eyes grew warm and languid, as if she found his measure pleasing indeed.
“Grand and tall, am I?” he said, his fingers teasing at the curve of her waist.
“You know very well that you are. You make such a fine figure when you are all dressed for dinner in your handsome coat and neckcloth.” Her hands traced up again to rest on either side of his collar. She studied his neckwear, her forehead crinkling with those familiar lines. “Is it you who ties them so beautifully, and puts in these little pins?”
“No, it is my man,” he said, his voice gone slightly raspy. “My valet.”
“Would he teach me how? I should like to be able to do such a thing, to arrange your collars and cravats.” She leaned to brush her cheek against his neck and almost lost her balance. His arm came around her waist to steady her, though he himself was quickly losing grasp of his control. The savage was awakening, beckoned by her slightly parted lips, the possessive approval in her gaze.
“You are not to fraternize with my valet,” he managed to say. “Duchesses do not need to learn how to tie cravats.”
She frowned. “Even yours?”
“Stay away from my valet. You are far too curious. Next you would be asking how to shave me and how to polish my boots.”
She scratched her fingertips through his evening stubble. “I should love to shave you, Court. I really should.”
“I’m afraid that is an absolute no.” He kissed her on her pout, tightening his arm around her waist.
“But I love this part of you. Your rough, strong jaw and your neck.” Her fingers traced down to the sides of his collar, just below his ears, then up to linger beneath his chin. He had never imagined marriage like this, with teasing talk and affectionate touches. “I remember the first time I saw you in your formal clothes,” she said, staring into his eyes. “You walked into the Darlingtons’ drawing room and stood and looked around, and you appeared so steadfast and haughty.”