Duchess Decadence (9 page)

“Is that a warning?” She adjusted the lace around her bodice. “
You
should know I am not afraid.”

Eustace grabbed her wrist, swung her around so her back was to him and twisted her arm into an unnatural and painful position between her spine and his chest. He pinned her other arm to her side. She was forced to arch and otherwise unable to move. Tears pricked beneath her lids.

“I need not bother with warnings and schemes. The two of you will be your own downfall.”

“I,” she said through her pain, “would not hold your breath.”

“Taking you back—with flourish, I might add—has caused many to question Wynchester’s judgment.”

“Gossip,” she spat, “I am sure you were happy to enflame.”

He growled into her ear. “Just as
you
were happy to enflame my brother’s base desires. You
would
prove my cold-fish brother’s Achilles heel.”

“Why,” she asked with exasperation, “have you hated me from the start?”

“Need I explain a mutual feeling?”

“No,” Thea blinked away another shooting pain. “I wanted to please Wynchester. At first, I offered you friendship.”

“And we know how that ended—you, stealing the sapphires and then blaming the theft on me.”

“You
know
I did not take them.”

“What I know does not matter. He believed you and sent me to my death.”

“From which, like Lazarus, you arose.”

“No
miracle
. Only my relentless determination to survive.”

“You are a liar and a thief.”

“And you are a bitch.”

She gritted her teeth. “They don’t hang bitches, but they hang traitors.”

He let her go so swiftly she lost her balance and landed on the floor. His smile was slow and cold.

“There are things worse than hanging,” he said.

She circled her aching shoulder as she rose, watching him mouse-to-hungry-cat. “Enlighten me.”

“Do you know how little it takes to suggest a person’s madness?”

She huffed. “I don’t suppose accosting a duchess would prove sufficient?”

“I am a man. And heir to a duke. Whereas you are a woman. A woman who has barely mastered the urge to wager ruinous sums. A woman who preferred the company of two ladies to her husband. A woman known for
decadence
.”

Chancery would never allow such a miscarriage of justice. She was Duchess of Wynchester. Duchesses did not disappear into madhouses.

…Did they?

“You,” she sneered, “you will soon be displaced as heir.”

“Think carefully before pursuing that route, my dear sister,” he said with chilling assurance. “A pregnancy so soon after your return would cause whispers, innuendo.”

She took a step back.

He continued, “All it would take is one suggestion to the excellent duke—why, dear brother, do you think she returned now, after so long an absence? Could it be she required the protection of your name for her bastard?”

Thea paled. “I have never cuckolded Wynchester.”

“But what you have and have not done does not matter—only what your precious Wyn will believe.” He clapped his hands together and held them at his chest. “Wouldn’t that be marvelous? Wynchester, sending away his heir to be born in obscurity and given away…just because he was born a scant nine months after you fixed a simple game and deceived him into taking you back?”

She backed away until her back hit the baluster. “I dare you to suggest to Wynchester that I have been false.”

The entry door swung open. Wynchester strode to Eustace’s side. Malice evaporated from Eustace’s expression, only to be replaced by a look of pure indulgence.

“Having a late-night parlay, are you?” Wynchester asked.

“When one gets a second chance at life,” Eustace said. “One is sure to make the best of every moment. Don’t you agree, sister dear?”

“Why, yes.” With head held high, she strode to Wynchester’s side. “I plan to make the most of my second chance.”

Wynchester looked down into her eyes and his smile disappeared. “You are pale, duchess.”

She patted his arm. “Just tired.”

“Are you sure there is no other reason you could be pale?” Eustace asked. “The way the two of you looked at one another on the dance floor made me wonder if I should expect a happy event.” He made a clicking noise and rubbed his chin. “And so soon after your return, duchess. I wonder what the gossips will say.”

Wynchester’s eyes traveled from Eustace to Thea and then back to Eustace.

“When such an event happens,” he said, “I will be the happiest of men.”

With a sinking feeling, Thea realized Wyn’s expression did not match his words.

“Forgive me, gentlemen,” she said as she turned for the stair. “It is well past time for me to retire.”

She would not be daring Eustace again.

Chapter Six

Wynchester stood on his side of the dark-stained door joining his bedchamber to that of the duchess and placed his forehead against the warm wood, just as he had done every night since she returned. Unlike all prior evenings, he was no longer unsure he’d be welcomed. His shoulders sagged and his long, green-gold banyan brushed the tops of his bare feet. The matter of their joining, however, had taken a complicated turn.

Thea Marie had taken Eustace’s meaning as clearly as he, he’d wager. And she was likely staring at the ceiling, cursing his brother’s return.

…If she was innocent of the deceit Eustace implied
. The ugly head of his old uncertainty reared, making him cringe.

Of course
she was innocent. Except for the matter of the missing jewels, she’d never given him cause to believe her duplicitous. And, even in that, she’d remained adamant that she’d had nothing to do with the sapphires’ disappearance, an insistence he’d become more inclined to accept over the years.

Would a woman with pluck enough to refuse her allowance and, instead, turn her friend’s home into a gaming hell steal priceless jewels in order to cover secret gambling losses?
No.
Although the sapphires had never been found, he’d long-since ceased to be suspicious that Thea had something to do with their disappearance.

Perhaps she was guilty of an excess of pride—a haughty self-assurance that sought to stymie him at every turn—but his wife’s internal world was ruled by integrity. Absolute precepts he admired, even when he did not concur.

Just as he admired the gestures she’d made tonight—the crest, the congenial greetings, the rose in her hair, and the dance.

The tension in his neck eased. For once, he hadn’t been ashamed when she had caused an eyebrow or two, or ten, to rise. When she’d sought him out for a second dance—a blatantly seductive second dance—her blush and falter had told him what he had not been able to decipher before. Whatever whispers remained concerning her willingness to be home—whispers his behavior at the Furies’ soiree had fired—had been squelched the moment they’d taken the floor. Clearly, she wanted to be in his arms.

For her efforts, he owed her private thanks, though going inside her chamber would be the devil’s own temptation. Damnation and hell feathers, he just wanted to be by her side.

Alone.

In bed.

He exhaled in frustration. “Thea Marie.”

A brief silence, then her voice. “Come in.”

He swung open the door. Their eyes met before hers fell to his parted banyan. He pursed his lips and tied his belt.

“Am I disturbing you?” he asked.

“Yes.” She smiled, faint. “What is your pleasure?”

A gentle goad, he decided. His pleasure involved so much more than he could have. A sound in her dressing room beyond disrupted his thoughts.

“Polly,” she called, “that will be all.”

“One moment, ma’am. Are you—” The maid emerged and immediately froze. She cast her eyes to the floor and her face turned the color of past-ripe apples.

“All is well, Polly,” she said. “You may go.”

“Gd’ night.” The maid curtseyed and hurried out, closing the door behind.

His duchess chuckled. “She finds you quite attractive.”

He frowned. “Pardon?”

“There’s no need for such a scowl. If Polly hadn’t told me of her admiration, I would have cause for concern.” Her gaze challenged as he approached the bed. “The child she carries belongs to her former employer.”

“You are giving me a test, I believe.” The mattress sagged where he sat. “You are wondering whether I will insist she be dismissed.”

“Will you?”

He should. He would have in his younger days. He had always insisted his staff be discreet, loyal, and of the highest moral caliber. In his wife’s guarded expression, he read—not her emotion—but untold depths of Polly’s story and her affinity for the girl.

“I trust your judgment,” he said.

“And you do me great honor, Your Grace.”

Sincere or mocking? Perhaps a little of both.

“Do you agree with your maid?” He set his foot on the bed frame and rested his elbow on his knee. “That is, on the matter of her current employer’s attractiveness.”

Thea Marie played with a curl while she studied his face. “Eustace made an implication.”

So, direct to the crux. “Yes.”

“I told you,” her normally pale skin darkened like sunset, “I had been with no other man.”

“I believe you,” he said slowly. “I know you did not return to me because you are with child.”

“Then why ask?”

“To make a point, I did not.” He rose, making his way to the fireside to watch the steaming, glowing coals. “However, if you were to become so quickly, there
would
be speculation.”

“What are you saying, Wynchester?”

He turned. He wore nothing beneath banyan and nightshirt. Under the thin linen sheets, she sported little more than a cotton eyelet nightgown. And under that? Well, under that was a wonderland he wanted to explore. He’d been too cautious a young man, and until Eustace made him realize the risk, he had intended to discard such caution tonight.
More than unfair. Downright cruel
.

“I am saying it would be better if we kept our distance…

Her lips thinned.

“…for a time,” he clarified.

“At least tell the truth,” she said with disgust.

“And what is the truth?”

“You believe me a whore.”

Again, the dark Fury spread her wings. Why must they exchange wrapped-leather words—one of them always the wrist-snap and the other, the sting? He gritted his teeth to halt the lash.

What was it about this woman that was so damned maddening? Meek women existed. The Hemingford girl, for instance. He took a deep breath. He had
no
interest in the Hemingford girl.

How could he? He’d been wrapped up in Thea Marie since his stubble had been fuzz.

“Never say such a thing. Never call yourself a…”
Damnation
. Why did certain words stick in his throat? He coughed. “I’ll not have
anyone
speak ill of my wife.”

“Even when it is true?” she queried quietly. “I am no loose woman, but neither am I,” her eyes fell to her hands, clasped above the sheet, “nice.”

The inexplicable urge to laugh bled the anger from his veins. Nice, she was not.

“Perhaps,” he said, “you are not nice—whatever ‘nice’ may mean—but you are, on occasion, engaging.”

She swallowed the start of a laugh and the sound warmed.

Splendor was ensconced in that bed.
His bed
, in fact, since the furniture belonged to him. By law, she belonged to him, too, right down to those eyes that flashed like fire. The law gave him every right to her person.

But their life, as it should have been? That was a privilege, not a right. A privilege he—and she—must earn.

He returned to sit by her side. Gently, he tugged a curl resting between her shoulder and her pillow. He wove the black softness around his finger and brought it to his lips.

If he gave into his urge, a child could result. A child who would live with whispers far worse than those he had borne on his father’s behalf. He could not allow such whispers. His family—those here and those yet to be born—he would protect. …Although the possessive need tightening in his groin was not making his task easy.

“My brother was right to make us aware of conjecture. Gossip can do irreparable harm, even when untrue.”

“It is unfair,” she said.

“Believe me,” he replied with a low groan, “I understand.”

He
would
resist his base urges.

It did not matter how much he admired—he stopped breathing. He had no call to taint the noblest of intentions with sentiment. What he felt was loyalty, not admiration.
Loyalty
. The honor due a wife.

He unwound her hair from his finger and arranged the curl against her breast…covering the spot he’d like to rest his head. “Will you permit me to protect you in this way?”

“How are we to act toward one another, if not as man and wife?”

He’d asked himself the same question earlier, as he’d paced his chamber. Physical possibilities did abound, unfortunately none of them were meant to be practiced with a lady. He’d settled on courtship as the only honorable answer.

“I intend to court you properly,” he said. “Lady Randolph informed me that courtship begins with conversation.”

Her jaw dropped. “She did
not
.”

“She did! Although I
might
have insinuated we would be doomed, were she in the right.”

A rare dimple appeared. “Conversation was never your best suit.”

“Not with you.”

She turned thoughtful. “Why is that, Wynchester?”

Why, indeed. As much as he wished to shrug away her question, if they could not share passion, they could, at least, share honesty.

He laid his hand over hers. “Unlike all others, you’ve asked nothing of me.”

“Perhaps I have not asked you for anything.” Her gaze fixed on his hand. One by one, she threaded her fingers into his. “Does it follow that I wanted nothing?

“No.” He’d known this truth forever, even when he had stubbornly refused its implications. “It follows you wanted
everything
.”

She lifted her eyes and studied him in silence. Distant images cascaded through his mind, from the very early—Thea Marie stifling a giggle after he bowed over her hand. Thea Marie passing him on his horse, black braids coming loose and flying in her wake. To the middle, following his father’s hasty-remarriage—she, beset with sympathy, he ashamed and distant. To their wedding night—awkward and silent and yet with a startling, almost alchemical affinity.

She had wanted what he might have been able to give, had his father’s disgrace not forced a change, of course. When he was Lord Haddon, he might have become her knight errant. Once he became Wynchester, he had more pressing concerns.

“I was young.” She startled him out of reverie. “I had romantic fancies.”

He’d smothered those fancies with sanctimonious pride.

“Have you been cured of your fancies, Duchess Decadence?”

“I thought so.” Her gaze fell to his lips while hers parted, unconsciously inviting. “Of late, I suspect my inoculation incomplete.”

Further thought drained with a downward blood-rush, part pain, and part pleasure.
Sweet Swithin
, he wanted her. She wet her lips. He hallucinated musk. Or, perhaps the scent was real. A rip of the sheet and a tear of her shift and they’d both be on their way to satisfaction long-denied.

But something more than the potential trouble Eustace implied held him back. They missed a key ingredient to mix mortar strong enough to weather future storms…and there would be storms. Fury and quip lived in both of their natures.

“Earlier,” he said, “you asked if I truly wished you to behave.”

That searching look of hers would be his death. “I did.”

“I don’t believe I have ever misbehaved…not since becoming Wynchester.”

“What a surprise.” Her unsurprised gaze remained steady.

“With you,” he adjusted his legs, “I find I very much want to misbehave.”

Her sly smile noted his discomfort. “You have just told me it cannot be.”

He groaned again. “It cannot be
for now
. However, we can discover other things. Things we missed before.”

“What did we miss?” she asked.

“Like I said,
you
missed a proper courtship.”

Her brows lifted with amusement. “Replete with conversation?”

He nodded. “Replete with conversation.”

“
You
intend to properly court
me
with
conversation
,” she said, as if her tongue were rolling over foreign words.

“Yes,” he said with a certainty he did not feel.

“Wyn, this cannot turn out well.” The sheet fell away as she stretched. She settled her hand on his mid-thigh. “Are you sure you haven’t a better idea?”

“Minx.” He cupped her cheeks.

“Be careful,” she said, all seriousness. “The Duke of Wynchester allows no one to disparage his Duchess.”

“Thea Marie,” he sighed, “you entice me beyond control.”

She hummed. “A tolerable start to courtship. Better than minx, anyway.”

Had he actually thought she would make this easy? “Lady Randolph suggested I stick to weather.”

She leaned forward. The valley between her breasts begged for his gaze. “It is hot.” Her soft breath fanned his cheeks. “Or, maybe it is your leg which is over-warm.”

“We are on dangerous ground.”

“Just a kiss, Wyn.” Her eyelids slid down. “Misbehave for me.”