His Favorite Mistress (29 page)

She moved closer, leaning up on her toes so she could murmur in his ear without being overheard. “That is not what I meant, and you know it. I thought you might like to bathe.”

He chuckled, lowering his voice in reply. “I’ll do that later, too. You can join me. Go on now, and I shall see you at dinner.”

With the housekeeper, butler, and a pair of footmen looking on—despite their best efforts to keep their gazes politely averted—Gabriella decided she had little choice but to do as Tony asked, not unless she wished to create a small ruckus on her very first day in residence. “As you wish, Your Grace,” she agreed.

Tony gave her another smile, waiting until the housekeeper stepped forward before he turned and disappeared down a long corridor to the right.

“If you’ll just follow me,” the older woman said, “I’ll show you to your rooms.”

On the walk to the family wing, Mrs. Armstrong proved a pleasant companion, chatting knowledgeably about the house and grounds and sharing interesting bits of information regarding the neighborhood and the families who lived nearby. Apparently several members of the local gentry had already called in hopes of meeting Gabriella and offering congratulations to her and the duke on their nuptials. She told Gabriella to expect them again soon, now that she and the duke had returned. If they were as amiable as the housekeeper made them out to be, Gabriella looked forward to their visits.

“Here we are, Your Grace,” the housekeeper declared as they entered an expansive sitting room decorated in soothing shades of rose and cream. Pretty flocked wallpaper with tiny pink flowers and curling green leaves covered the walls, while delicate silk-upholstered furnishings and airy draperies were arranged to let in light and provide a comfortable sense of space. Various objets d’art, soft Aubusson carpets, and a pair of landscape paintings completed the effect.

The adjoining bedroom proved just as lovely, the even larger room done in pale greens and blues with exquisite satinwood furnishings and plush sapphire velvet drapes. The wide feather bed looked cozy and inviting, just right for long hours spent beneath its luxurious sheets. Across the room was a massive fireplace with a carved marble surround that conjured images of delightful, warm winter nights spent before its gentle glow.

“There is a dressing room and bath as well,” the housekeeper volunteered.

“Oh, it’s all so beautiful!” Gabriella sighed, turning slowly to once again admire the rooms.

A pleased smile curved Mrs. Armstrong’s mouth, her hands tucked against her motherly waist. “I am glad you approve, Your Grace. His Grace ordered the redecorating done just before he left London for your honeymoon. Gave strict instructions, and said all the work was to be accomplished before your arrival.”

“Tony did this…I had no idea.” She laid a hand against her breast, warmth spreading through her veins.

“The duchess’s quarters haven’t been lived in for quite some while. He thought everything was too dark and old-fashioned and wanted something new.”

“It is absolutely perfect.”

And thoughtful. And loving.
For a moment she closed her eyes. In the weeks since she and Tony had married they had grown close, spending nearly every moment together—awake or asleep. And yet despite their deep intimacy, he had never said the words she longed to hear, never told her he loved her. But this…this gift, how could such generosity show anything but caring? How could she interpret it as anything other than an act of love?

Brimming with pleasure, she wanted to run and find him, toss her arms around his neck and give him a kiss of happiness he wouldn’t soon forget. But she forced her feet to remain where they stood, cautioning herself that a duchess should never run like a wild hoyden through a house—not even her own house. Besides, the place was so large she wouldn’t have the slightest idea where to find him, and, as he’d told her, he had business.
I will thank him later,
she decided.
Tonight in our bed.

“His Grace’s rooms are just through there,” Mrs. Armstrong said, indicating a door that stood on the far side of the sitting room.

The information gave her a sudden pause, until she realized that it was only logical that Tony would have his own set of rooms. But just because they existed didn’t mean he had to use them. Certainly not the bedroom, anyway.

“Your extra trunks from London arrived some while ago,” the housekeeper volunteered. “And everything has been stored away. One of the maids will see to the belongings you brought with you today from Norfolk. You will find hot water in the bath. I can have refreshments sent up as well.”

“That would be most welcome. Thank you.”

The other woman nodded, then started across the room. Halfway, she stopped and turned back. “Perhaps it is not my place, Your Grace, but I wanted to tell you how delighted all the staff are to welcome you here to Rosemeade. We are so glad the duke finally decided to take a bride, since many of us despaired he ever would. Things have not always been easy for him, but he’s the very best of men and deserves to be happy. Having met you, I can see why he changed his mind.”

Mrs. Armstrong paused, laying a hand against her chest where a small watch was pinned. “I hope there will be a baby in the next year or two. It would be so good to open the nursery again. Well, I’ve run on long enough and you must be tired from your journey. I’ll send the tea up immediately.”

A baby!
Gabriella thought the moment the other woman left. She and Tony had only been married seven weeks, far too soon to be thinking about babies. Yet she had always wanted a family. If she found herself expecting so soon, she supposed she wouldn’t mind. Considering all the hours she and Tony had spent making love, such an occurrence certainly wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Then again, she would like to have him to herself for a while more. Either way, she decided, she would be glad.

A moment later one of the maids arrived, giving her no further time for reflection.

Chapter Sixteen

F
OUR DAYS LATER,
Tony signed one of the myriad pieces of correspondence he and his secretary had been laboring to complete, then set the letter aside on one corner of his desk to be franked and mailed. A glance at the clock showed him morning was nearly past and that perhaps it was time he took a break.

Laying down his quill pen, he leaned back in his chair, his thoughts turning to Gabriella. A small squeeze of guilt went through him, knowing he’d been neglecting her of late. Despite his promise that they would spend time together, he’d mostly left her to her own devices, letting Mrs. Armstrong help her get acquainted with the house and grounds. He saw her for meals, of course, and he came to her bed at night, unable to keep his desire for her at bay even now.

Last night she’d changed their routine, he recalled with a little smile on his lips, coming to him with a claim that she wanted to see his rooms. After a cursory inspection and a comment that the space suited him despite it being “very brown and masculine,” she’d hopped onto his bed and bounced, giggling with the carefree guilelessness of a child.

“Just finding out if the feathers are soft,”
she’d teased before she’d leaned back with a naughty sparkle in her eyes that wasn’t childlike in the least. He’d joined her there only moments later and had refused to let her leave until her inquiry was well and thoroughly satisfied.

As for her own rooms, he was gratified by her response to them, pleased she was so happy with the renovations he’d had done. He’d wanted everything to be new and bright, with modern furnishings and appointments chosen specifically for her. He supposed he could have left the rooms as they had been and let Gabriella do the redecorating herself, but he’d wanted a fresh start to inaugurate their new life together.

And—as he’d told her that first night while she’d been dusting thank-you kisses across his face as they stood inside her bedchamber—if there was anything she did not like, she had only to say the word. As far as he was concerned, she could tear out everything and start over again, if that was her desire. But she’d shaken her head and professed to love her rooms—every inch of fabric and paper, glass and wood. For a moment, he’d thought she’d been on the verge of telling him something else, but then he’d slipped his hands under her robe and both of them had forgotten all about conversation for a very long while.

Casting a glance at the clock again, he considered the time and his duties. Despite the numerous items that still required his attention, he supposed no great harm would be done if he slipped off with Gabriella for a few hours this afternoon. Warming to the notion, he decided he would ask Cook to pack them a hamper.
Yes, a picnic might be just the thing.
They could ride out to a spot he knew well—a lovely, tree-sheltered knoll near one of Rosemeade’s streams, where they could enjoy a fine meal and who knows what else afterward.

Already relishing the idea, he slid his chair away from his desk, but before he could rise from his seat, a knock sounded at the door. “Come,” he called.

His butler entered the room, a serious cast to his always proper features. “Pardon me, Your Grace, but a visitor has arrived. The dow—”

“Pray do not be absurd, Crump,” interrupted a lilting feminine voice as a slender, elegantly gowned woman breezed into the room. “I am not a
visitor
and do not need to be announced, certainly not to my own son. I used to live here once, if you will recall. I believe you were a footman at the time.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” intoned the retainer. “First footman, though that was many years ago.”

“I trust you will not be nasty and remind me how many. Now, be off and attend to your duties. I want to talk to Wyvern.”

The man, who despite appearances was likely the younger of the pair, bowed and withdrew, closing the door behind him. Once he did, Tony surveyed his mother, aware that despite the reality of her age, no one looking at her would suspect that the Dowager Duchess of Wyvern was now in her fifth decade.

Always a beauty, her looks remained nearly unchanged from the days of her youth. Her hair was the same rich, burnished gold it had always been, without a single strand of white. Her skin was still taut and clear. As for her face and figure…well, from all reports, she continued to attract new lovers into her arms with steady regularity—just the way she liked.

“So?” she demanded as she glided forward and sank into a nearby chair, pausing for a moment to fuss with the peach-colored material of her skirt. “Have you nothing to say?”

He relaxed back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin. “Hallo, Mother. What is it that brings you here?”

Her lips rounded into a moue. “The same as ever, I see, alarmingly direct and to the point. A rather annoying trait inherited from your father.”

“Luckily for me, I inherited a great many traits from my father.”

She made another face but ignored the comment. “I have come because of this rash, impetuous act of yours. What do you mean by getting married and telling no one beforehand?”

“You had my letter, I assume,” he said, his hands moving to the arms of his chair.

“Of course I received your missive, if you call that brief note a
letter.
I was in Prague at the time, else I would have been here sooner. I left to return to England as soon as I read it.”

“Why? I should think the news alone would have sufficed without any need for you to cut short your sojourn.”

Her lashes swept downward for a moment. “My time abroad was nearly over by then, so the change of plans made little difference.”

He quirked a brow. “Ah, got rid of your lover, did you? Or did he get rid of you?”

Her shoulders stiffened. “There is no need to be crude. And my social life is no concern of yours.”

“One might say the same to you about the specifics of my marriage. Besides, I should think you would be happy that I have finally wed, given your expressed displeasure over the years at my single state.”

Her blue eyes flashed. “Of course I was displeased by your refusal to marry—nothing but stubborn selfishness on your part, if you ask me.”

He studied the fingernails of his right hand. “Yes, so you have said before.”

“That’s right,” she returned. “You have a duty to this family to carry on the name, just like all the other Blacks before you. How else do you think the title has managed to pass in a direct line through twenty-three generations? If I had done as I wished, some cousin would have inherited it long ago.”

He listened with half an ear, the speech a familiar one.

“Why else do you think I sacrificed my own my health in order to bring you into the world?” she continued. “Not to mention my willingness to risk my figure. Many women
die,
you know, and worse, get
fat,
but your father needed an heir and, of course, it was my obligation to comply.”

She broke off, her brows racing together. “Good God, that isn’t why you married that girl, is it? Because you got her with child? If that is the case, I should think you could have bought her off with a few pretty trinkets and a house somewhere in the countryside. Then you might still be free to marry a girl of good lineage, as befits your station, instead of one of such lowering origins. I suppose there is always the possibility of divorce, but just consider the scandal. Then again—”