How to Deceive a Duke (6 page)

He grabbed her wrist without a word and strode down the aisle, dragging her behind him.

Her mother sobbed as they raced past, the sound of her grief echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Hector looked grim. The duchess stood stiffly silent in the family pew. If she knew, she gave no sign that her grandson had married the wrong woman.

The rest of the church was nearly empty. Other than immediate family, no one at all had been invited to the wedding.

Realization shook her anew as the bells began to peal. The man dragging her out of the church at a dead run was her husband. For better or worse—probably more the latter than the former—she was married.

The Devil of Temberlay was not so amusing now.

She glanced up at St. George as they swept out of the church and whispered a prayer, but the saint had slain
his
dragon, and she was on her own.

Chapter 10

T
emberlay dragged her down the steps, his grip like iron. Meg flinched as handfuls of wheat hit her like hail. She tried to tug free to slow down, but he hurried on, ignoring her struggles.

He reached the nearest coach and opened the door. “Hartley Place, Rogers,” he ordered as he thrust her into the dark interior.

She perched stiffly on the plush seat, and he settled himself across from her. She examined her husband from under the veil as the coach lurched away from the curb. The velvet squabs were dark green, which made his coat look all the more garish. She felt a bubble of hysterical laughter catch in her throat, though aside from his attire, there was nothing at all amusing about him. The caricatures didn’t begin to do him justice. He was better-looking, bigger, and far more dangerous in person. He bore no resemblance at all to the playful rascal in the scandal sheets.

“You can take off that veil now, Daisy,” he said, and she stiffened at his insolent use of the wrong name. Even Rose would have been better.

“Daisy might take hers off, but I have no intention of doing so,” she said, and bit her lip. She sounded like a prim little fool.

He sent her a lazy smile that turned her insides to jelly. Men smiled like that at Rose, not Marguerite. He plucked a rose from her bouquet and brought it to his nose in a polished gesture.

“If I call you Rose, and ask nicely, will you comply?”

Suddenly Meg did not want to be called by her sister’s name. Not by this man.

“No,” she said stubbornly.

“Surely I’ve earned the right to look at you. I married you, and you’ve been well paid for the honor of becoming Duchess of Temberlay,” he said coldly.

“Not well enough paid to endure insults! Are you drunk?” She’d read that he drank four bottles of wine at breakfast, switched to whisky, gin, and stout at lunch, and enjoyed countless glasses of champagne by night.

He raised his brows. “Not at the moment, but I intend to remedy that as soon as I get home. I wonder when I’ll need the solace of drink more—before or after I bed you?”

Her stomach flipped. Something in his eyes told her this would be very different indeed from the mating of horses, or from the casual kisses Rose had described, or anything else in her narrow realm of experience. She would not let him know that, however. She raised her chin and bluffed. “Let’s make it before, shall we? I hear that drink renders a man incapable.” She’d seen that tidbit in a scandal sheet somewhere, hadn’t she? He laughed, hardly the response she’d hoped for.

“T
hat’s never been a problem for me,” Nicholas drawled. She was quick-witted, at least, if tart-tongued. He watched her incredible mouth work. Her mouth rippled in trepidation as she wondered if she’d gone too far. Even with the rest of her face hidden, that one feature betrayed a dozen emotions. He’d read disapproval, fear, pride, and determination, all from observing nothing more than her lips. It was fascinating, made him wonder what it would be like to kiss her properly.

Was she as untried as rumor reported? “Have you been disappointed by an inebriated lover in the past? Show me the cad, and I’ll call him out on your behalf.”

Her lips gaped in maidenly mortification. Was she blushing under the veil, or on the verge of tears? To his surprise, she laughed, and clapped a hand over her mouth.

He frowned. He wanted to discomfit her, not amuse her. He picked up her hand and pulled off her glove, and tossed it out the window for effect. Her smile faded, and her lips trembled when he touched her.

He looked at her hand. Her fingers were cold and stiff, though long and delicately made. Her skin was tanned, and he felt a roughness on her palm and turned her hand to look at it. Her skin was calloused and red, as if she scrubbed floors for a living.

Another curiosity. Ladies did not have rough skin, or freckles. Aside from the fact she had pretty eyes, work-worn hands, a delectable mouth, and a quick tongue, he knew nothing about her at all.

She clenched her hand, tried to draw back, but he opened it again, and brought it to his lips, and kissed her palm and her fingertips. He felt the tremor run through her, heard her sharp intake of breath. Her lower lip caught in her teeth. Intrigued by the reaction, he let his lips linger on the hectic pulse point in her wrist. When he slid his hand along her arm, seeking the soft skin at her elbow, she gasped and pulled away, hiding her hand in her lap, her chest heaving, lips parted in surprise.

He shifted in his seat. The erotic teasing had unsettled her, but it also had an unexpected effect on him. Perhaps it was the fact that her face was hidden, or that she was a stranger and an innocent, though he had never found virgins to his taste before. He sat back, crossed his legs to hide his arousal and reminded himself that this was duty, not pleasure. Tantalizing as she was to toy with, she was still likely to prove a disappointment in bed. He stared out the window and did his best to ignore her, but her perfume tugged at his curiosity, and the sound of her breath and the rustle of her gown made him intensely aware of her.

M
eg’s hand tingled. Actually, everything tingled. He’d only held her hand, yet she felt his touch
everywhere
. The look in his eyes made her feel naked. Under her clothes her body pulsed and throbbed. She was out of her depth, drowning in sensation, and he had merely kissed her fingers.

She drew a shaky breath and gazed at him from the feeble sanctuary of her veil, imagining what else was to come, but he was staring out the window with a world-weary expression as if he’d forgotten her. His hands lay folded in his lap. She imagined those long fingers caressing her skin, his body joined to hers. His hands, his thighs . . . She shut her eyes and gave an involuntary moan. He shot her a look, his brows rising into his hairline.

“Pardon?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she murmured, and clutched the roses tighter, suddenly anxious to be out of his overwhelming presence. By tomorrow it would be over—the wedding, the bedding, everything but the gossip. Surely his—their—hasty marriage would be the talk of London as soon as the notice was published in the respectable pages of the
Morning Post
. She shut her eyes, imagining the wicked delight the scandal sheets would take in her marriage if—when—her deception was discovered. Vultures swooped in her chest again.

The coach pulled up beneath the portico in front of Hartley Place, and Meg looked out at the imposing town house. The Temberlay crest, a snarling wolf poised over the body of a slain doe, was carved in stone above the front door. She gazed up at it in horror for a moment, wondering if she dared to see this through. It was wrong to deceive him, even for so good a reason. Surely Temberlay would eat her alive when he discovered he’d been tricked into marrying the plain Lynton sister, cheated out of the beauty he expected. She felt pity for him, and a pang of guilt. The poor man expected a swan, and he was getting the ugly duckling, the daughter Lord Wycliffe himself had said no one would ever want.

And when her deception was discovered, the duchess would no doubt be pleased to assist her grandson in making a meal of her. They’d add a fork and knife to the coat of arms to warn away future generations of foolish virgins.

The door opened and two rows of footmen marched out, wearing impeccable livery, and stood between the coach and front door. Nicholas climbed out of the vehicle in a lithe movement. To her dismay he walked straight up the steps without offering his hand, or even bothering to glance back at her.

Her pity faded and guilt turned to acid. She felt herself flush under the curious eyes of the servants. She stared at Temberlay’s broad back, and waited for someone to point and laugh and send the coach away with her still inside it.

Instead, a gloved hand appeared and she took it and climbed out. The decision had been made, the vows spoken. There was no turning back. She must begin as she meant to go on.

She pasted on a gracious smile and nodded at each footman as if she belonged here. For better or worse, she was from this moment on the Duchess of Temberlay.

Chapter 11

T
emberlay went through the front door without pausing, and Meg followed him into a magnificent entry hall that seemed to be carved from one enormous block of marble. The ceiling soared three stories above the floor. A grand staircase soared heavenward. She gaped like a tourist.

Temberlay’s hat sat on a mahogany table, and she could hear the click of his boot heels echoing from one of the myriad corridors that led off the entry. The front door closed behind her and the footmen melted into the walls. As the sound of footsteps faded entirely, she clutched the bouquet to her chest, unsure of what to do.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace. I’m Gardiner, the butler.” She hadn’t heard him approach, and she wondered for a moment if he’d appeared straight out of the marble. “Welcome to Hartley Place. If you will come this way?” He indicated one of the corridors with a gloved hand.

Unlike his master, the man didn’t make a sound as he moved over the marble floor. He opened a pair of doors that led to a salon.

Temberlay was lounging in a chair, his booted feet propped on a delicate tea table, a tumbler of golden liquid in his hand. He tossed it back quickly and held out the empty glass to Gardiner, who silently refilled it.

Her husband didn’t invite her to sit, so she did so on her own, choosing a settee as far from him as possible.

“May I offer you some tea, Your Grace?” Gardiner asked, and she looked at Temberlay.

He tilted his head mockingly. “Gardiner means you, Duchess. Do you want tea? I never touch it myself.”

She wished the floor would open and swallow her. She managed to smile at the patient butler. “Thank you. Tea would be most welcome.”

He bowed and glided out, closing the doors behind him. Alone in Temberlay’s disturbing presence, Meg listened to the tick of the clock. It was barely noon. She had been married less than an hour.

“Isn’t it hot under that veil?” he asked, and she jumped. It was indeed, and she couldn’t hide her face forever. She set her bouquet aside and raised the lace, folding it back from her forehead with nervous fingers. He regarded her with lazy interest, offering no hint of either approval or disappointment. She held his gaze boldly, though she could feel her skin growing hot. She looked away first and studied a landscape above the mantel as if it were the most fascinating painting on earth.

N
o, he hadn’t been mistaken at the church. She
was
beautiful. The realization that he’d be bedding her in just a few hours caught him in the gut with an unexpected rush of lust.

“You’re hardly what I expected,” he said. “How old are you?”

“Twenty,” she said, her eyes returning to his. Crisp, intelligent, beautiful eyes. “And you?”

“Thirty-one in years. Far older by experience,” he quipped, and was rewarded with another blush, though she didn’t seem to know how to reply, and they lapsed back into silence.

He watched her eyes wander the room, taking in the furnishings, the art, the wallpaper, everything but him.

“No, you’re not what I expected at all,” he said again to make her look at him. Her brows rose toward the edge of the lace.

“And just what did you expect, Your Grace?”

“A woman short on looks and wit, wide of hip.”

Her lips twitched, and she lowered her eyes again. What was she thinking?

“Rose,” he tested her name on his lips. She didn’t answer. “Rose,” he said again, and she looked up with wide-eyed surprise. “Are you truly as innocent as I’ve heard?”

Her lips pinched, and she raised her chin to a stubborn little point. “Are you as sinful as they say you are?”

He smiled at her daring. “Probably more so, since most of my sinning is done behind closed doors.” She blushed again, and his grin deepened. Not so daring after all. “Yes, you are definitely innocent. Far too innocent for my taste.” He sipped the whisky, let it burn, but the desire to touch her, to see if her cheek was as warm as it looked, didn’t go away.

“Don’t men expect the ladies they marry to be innocent? Even the women you share your bed with now were innocent once.”

Touché.
“True enough, Duchess. But I’m not like most men. Have you ever kissed a man? A boy, even?”

She kept her expression flat, her eyes locked on his.

“I kissed you,” she said tartly, and he barked a laugh. He got up from his chair, crossed the room, and sat beside her. She held his gaze like a doe before a hungry wolf, but held her ground.

“No, Duchess, that miserable peck in the church was no kiss at all. I shall have to teach you better than that.”

He slid his knuckles over her cheek, his touch light, teasing. Her skin was indeed hot, and soft as silk. She lowered her gaze, and her lips parted. She didn’t pull away, though he could feel her trembling.

His mouth descended on hers, and she made a small noise that might have been fear or desire and raised her hands to his chest. The sweet sound shot straight to his groin. She didn’t push him away, and he brushed his lips over hers and hovered over her mouth, waiting until her eyes drifted shut, and her lips parted. Her fingers curled against his chest.

He kissed her again, firmly this time, his lips mobile, insistent. She tasted of roses—or perhaps it was the scent of her bouquet—and honey, and innocence. He drew her lower lip into his mouth and she stayed still, allowing it. He moved his lips to her cheek, then over her jaw to the pulse point at the base of her neck and kissed her there too. Her heart was beating like a trapped bird. When he found her lips again, she sighed and kissed him back, tentatively, inexpertly, and he realized that innocence appealed to him after all.

He drew back in surprise, read the same emotion in her misty gaze. He got up and returned to his distant seat, and she raised shaking fingertips to her lips.

He forced himself to look bored. He crossed his legs and sipped his whisky, trying to eliminate the taste of her, to calm the desire to seduce her right here in the salon. What would Granddame say to that when she arrived home to congratulate the happy couple? She’d cackle in victory, urge him on, since nothing mattered but getting a bloody heir.

“Did you like it?” he asked.

M
eg ran her tongue over her lips, tasted whisky. Yes, she’d liked it. She didn’t dare reply. A request for more hovered on the tip of her tongue.

“You’re trembling,” he said. “I must admit even I found it intriguing. I hadn’t known a woman of twenty could be so entirely untouched. I have you to teach and mold as I wish, don’t I?”

Indignation pricked her. She stiffened her limpid spine and leveled a glare at him. “I am not interested in being molded, Your Grace. This is duty only.”

His eyes hardened. She was Granddame’s creature, then. The money, he reminded himself. He still needed his grandmother’s money to run his estates. For the time being, much as he hated it, he must play her game. “Then we understand each other. Once this sham of a marriage is consummated, as unpleasant as that may be for us both, you will retire to Temberlay Castle to live.”

“I intend to return to Wycliffe Park as soon as possible.”

Temberlay rose, and Meg watched him prowl toward her, his eyes cold, and her heart climbed into her throat, but he didn’t touch her. He merely leaned on the fireplace. “I am not used to having my orders disobeyed. My time in the army, I suppose.”

She got to her feet too. “This is not the army.”

He ran his eyes over her body, and she felt it like a touch. “Christ, they should have sent you up against the French in Spain. Napoleon would have run screaming to hide under his bed and troubled Europe no more. Are all your sisters like you? I suppose I should be glad you wish to retire to the country. Imagine if you’d expected to stay in Town. The
ton
would have a field day with you.”

Her eyes widened. It was the kind of thing her father might have said. “How dare you—” she began, but the doors swept open.

“The Countess of Wycliffe and Lord Hector Bryant,” Gardiner intoned, but Flora was already racing across the room toward her.

N
icholas watched the mother of the bride dissolve into tears more appropriate for a wake than a wedding. The bride herself was dry-eyed and strong.

Lord Hector Bryant bowed stiffly, his eyes wary as he offered terse congratulations and shook Nicholas’s hand. He accepted with a crisp nod.

No one at all, it seemed, was happy. Except perhaps Granddame. She hadn’t arrived to enjoy her victory as yet.

“Where is my grandmother?” he asked Gardiner.

“She has gone upstairs to rest, Your Grace. She pleads a slight headache.”

Nicholas frowned. Granddame had the constitution of an army draft horse. She did not get headaches. She probably had a scythe of her own, and would do fierce battle with the Grim Reaper when he came for her. He felt a prickle of suspicion climb his spine. He dismissed Gardiner.

“The wedding was—” The countess struggled for the right word. “—brief.” She regarded him as if he were a man-eating tiger that hadn’t been fed.

“Mercifully so, Countess,” he replied, and smiled charmingly when Flora gasped.

“Mother, do sit down,” his bride said. “Gardiner will be bringing tea shortly.”

But Flora was bristling with indignation. “Your audacity, Your Grace, is quite—” but her daughter’s hand on her arm stopped her. He was about to bid her continue when the doors opened again.

“My apologies, I’m late,” Sebastian said, grinning like a fool. His eyes fell on the bride, and he swept toward her. He sketched a bow, and kissed her hand with an exaggerated flourish. “My congratulations, Your Grace. I wish you well of Nicholas.”

She looked at Nicholas expectantly.

“May I present Viscount St. James?” he said tersely. “Sebastian, sit down.” He didn’t like the gleam in Seb’s eyes as he ogled her.

His bride simply raised her brows. “You make it sound as if I can expect difficulty with my husband, Viscount St. James.”

He grinned again, and actually giggled. “Difficulty with Nick? Not at all. In the right hands, he’s quite malleable.”

Flora gasped, and his bride’s expression declared instant dislike for the viscount.

“St. James, have you been drinking?” Temberlay asked.

“I stopped at the club on the way back to spread the happy news of your nuptials.” He turned back to the bride. “I understand you have sisters at home, Your Grace. Are they all as lovely as yourself? May I call you Rose? Calling you ‘Your Grace’ makes me think of Nicholas, and I’d much rather think of you,” he purred.

The countess clenched her fist.

The new duchess took her mother’s hand and tucked it into her own. “No, you may not,” she said. Sebastian’s grin faded and he blinked like an owl at the set-down.

Nicholas watched Hector rub his chin, trying to hide a smile, and felt a grudging admiration of his own. Poor Sebastian. He’d made the mistake of assuming Rose Lynton was a witless country bumpkin. He’d thought so himself, but she had passed this first test, and had come out every inch a duchess.

Gardiner returned with tea, and Rose indicated with a nod that he could pour out.

“Would you care for tea, Your Grace?” she asked him.

“No thank you. I have business to attend to this afternoon, and I must go.”

“Business? Today?” the countess gasped. “No wedding breakfast? Not even champagne and a toast to the—happy—couple? This is a shoddy affair!”

His bride’s cheeks colored, and she dropped her gaze, but said nothing.

“Duty before pleasure,” he said. “Though I’m sure Gardiner would be happy to bring you some champagne if you wish it.”

The new Duchess of Temberlay looked up at that, her hazel eyes molten pools of dignity. “No, I think not. I wouldn’t dream of keeping you here if you have business to see to, Your Grace. You may go. Good afternoon.”

He felt his skin heat at her audacity.

She turned her back on him and made a bland comment to her mother about the warmth of the weather, as if she’d already forgotten him. Her mother’s eyes were round as millponds, and Hector and Sebastian were looking from her to Temberlay and back again, waiting for his reaction.

He put his hands on her waist and picked her up with ease, turning her to face him. He caught her gasp of surprise in his mouth. This kiss wasn’t the slow, tentative peck he’d given her on the settee. This was ravishment, pure sex, an onslaught she wasn’t prepared for. She pressed her fists against her chest, tried to shove him away.

He heard her mother’s warble of dismay, and Hector’s exclamation of surprise. His tongue slipped into her mouth when she opened it to protest, sparred with hers. The intimacy was stunning, unbelievably . . . delicious. She stopped fighting as his mouth moved expertly over hers. Her knees weakened and she sagged against him. She slid her arms around his neck, and he drew her closer, pressed her body to his.

“For pity’s sake!” Flora cried, and his bride pulled away, suddenly remembering where she was.

No one else in the room said a word.

The hazel of her eyes was gone, subsumed into the black of her pupils. She stared at him for a moment before she wiped the back of her hand across her lips. He leaned in again, and heard her expectant intake of breath. His mouth watered, but he put his lips to her ear instead, and kissed the lobe.

“Rest well this afternoon,” he murmured. “You’ll need your strength tonight.” He stepped back, and she put her hand on the back of the settee to steady herself. He gave her a rake’s grin, the kind of smile even an innocent could recognize as masculine superiority. He’d won that round, and she knew it.

Without another word, he turned and strode out of the room, with Sebastian at his heels.

M
eg watched him go, bemused, and baffled. What on earth had just happened? The world had tilted on its axis, forever changed with one simple kiss. But it wasn’t simple. There was more. She thought of the night to come, felt her stomach coil with smoke. He was the master of this game indeed, and she didn’t even know the rules.