How to Please a Lady (5 page)

“I
hear those American girls love a man with an accent,” Bucky said, jostling Charlie as they stood just outside the stables. Bucky was all of eighteen and, having lost his virginity just one week ago to one of the chambermaids, his thoughts were solidly on one subject. “Get 'em tipsy and they'll do whatever you want.” He made an obscene gesture, and Charlie laughed because Bucky was a harmless bloke who didn't mean a thing he said. The youth was so smitten with that little maid, he'd already begun thinking of marriage.

“I'll be working too hard to have time for a girl,” Charlie said. “At least at first. That's the thing in America; work hard and you make more money. Here, you work hard and it's always the same. Doesn't matter if you work hard or dawdle around all day like you, a man still gets paid.”

“You have to find a girl, Charlie,” Bucky said, ignoring the insult, his eyes going wide. “Or are you going to be too busy mooning about a certain lady.”

“Sod off, Bucky,” Charlie said lightly. Harry had a big mouth. He'd confided in him a few months back after pulling down one too many whiskeys and sorely regretted it. Everyone knew he was a fool for Lady Rose now, even this young whelp.

As an apology, Bucky pulled out a flask and held it out to Charlie. “Sure, why not,” Charlie said, grabbing the flask, taking a small swig and handing it back to Bucky. He didn't want to drink too much, not with Moonrise about to foal.

“Oh, shite,” Bucky said, his eyes wide as he pulled the flask down and quickly put the cork back in. “Company.”

Charlie followed Bucky's gaze to see Lady Rose hurrying toward the stables, her cheeks flushed from the exertion of walking so fast. She looked . . . hell, she looked like she was running from a swarm of spiders. Behind her, the duke walked toward the house, and Charlie's eyes went from the duke to Lady Rose, sensing something was wrong.

“Hello, boys,” she said as she neared them. She held out her hand and Bucky reluctantly handed over his flask. “Thank you.” Then to Charlie's surprise, she pulled the cork, took a long pull, swished it about and spat onto the ground before taking another pull and swallowing it. As if she'd done nothing stunning, she corked the flask and handed it back to Bucky, who stood there mutely, gaping at her. Charlie watched silently, noting with growing alarm that she was shaking, that putting that cork back in the flask was far more difficult for her than it should have been.

“Bucky, go check on the horses in the pasture.”

“But . . .”

“Now, Bucky,” Charlie said as he watched Lady Rose walk into the stable and head toward Moonrise.

Bucky walked away, mumbling beneath his breath, but Charlie ignored him. Something was wrong. Something had happened. A lover's quarrel? He looked to where the duke walked, now a small figure stepping up the shallow stairs to the veranda. When he reached the top, he turned and looked toward the stables, and something in Charlie's gut churned.

He walked into the stable and saw her standing outside Moonrise's stall, clutching the railing. She was trembling visibly and he realized when he reached her that the odd clacking noise he could hear was her teeth chattering—even though the day was quite warm.

“Are you quite well, my lady?” Charlie asked, looking at her intently.

She took a short, audible breath, then turned to him and smiled. “Of course,” she said, smoothing down her skirts. Charlie's eyes followed the motion, noting the grass stains by her knees. His gaze immediately went to her face, but she looked away, training her eyes on the mare. “How is Moonrise?”

He studied Lady Rose a long moment more, finally deciding to not press further. It wasn't his place, and if she didn't want to tell him what was troubling her, he certainly couldn't force her to tell him. “You'll have a foal by tomorrow morning.”

She smiled, then leaned her chin on the hands that rested on the gate. It was such a familiar sight, to see her like that. How many times had he been working on a horse, trimming hooves or grooming one, only to look up and see her just like that, silently watching what he did?

“Then I'll see you in the morning, Charlie.”

He turned sharply to her, for he could have sworn her voice broke, as if she was crying—or trying not to. But she only smiled and turned away before he could determine whether there were tears in her eyes. “My lady,” he called as she walked away.

But she simply waved her hand without turning, calling out, “Tomorrow, Charlie. Take care of her for me.” It wasn't until she reached the outside that she turned and smiled. “I'm counting on you.” Then she spun around and walked quickly to the house.

 

Rose spent a near sleepless night, trying not to think about what had happened with the duke but finding it impossible. She was set to walk out with the duke again and the thought of being alone with him was making her physically ill. He was to be her husband and she couldn't even bear to be alone with him. What would it be like when they were man and wife?

When she was dressed, she headed immediately to her mother's room. She hadn't any idea what she would say, but she could not go on without telling her mother of her doubts. She could never tell her what had happened. It was mortifying and humiliating, but she decided she could tell her mother she was having grave doubts about the duke and about the wedding. Three months had seemed like forever not two days ago; now it seemed as if she were teetering on the last step and would fall into marriage in a blink of time.

She knocked on her mother's door and entered to find her mother sitting before her vanity, her maid putting the final touches on her hair.

“Don't you look lovely, dear,” her mother said, rising and walking over to her to adjust one sleeve. “His Grace will be here in less than an hour, but you do appear to be ready.”

“Mother, I would like to talk to you about the duke.” Rose darted a look at Peggy, her mother's maid.

“You may go, Peggy, thank you.”

Her maid gave a quick curtsy before leaving, closing the door quietly behind her. When she had gone, Rose blurted out, “I think I've made a terrible mistake.”

Her mother laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “Wedding jitters. We've all had them.”

“It's more than that,” Rose said, swallowing thickly. “Yesterday, when we were walking, he . . . the duke . . . made improper advances.”

Her mother gave her a look of amused commiseration. “Oh, darling, you look so worried. A few stolen kisses between an engaged couple is nothing to fret about.” She turned to sit back down at her vanity, but then her gaze sharpened and she looked at Rose through the reflection. “He didn't . . . You are still . . .” She let her voice trail off, but Rose knew what she'd meant.

Rose felt her cheeks redden. She longed to tell her mother the truth, but it was just so shameful. And what if her mother dismissed it as nothing? Or worse, blamed her for inciting his passions? She'd been taught for years that it was up to the woman to let a man know where the boundaries were, yet she hadn't stopped him. She hadn't struck him or really even tried to push him away once it had started.

“Nothing like that.” Somehow, it was worse, but she couldn't bring herself to say it aloud, not to her mother, who trusted her, who was so very happy that the duke had offered his hand.

Her mother looked visibly relieved. “Then there's nothing to worry about, Rose. Men sometimes have a difficult time controlling their baser feelings, and it is up to us women to keep them in check. If he tries to do more than steal a kiss, you are to tell him in no uncertain terms that it will have to wait until your wedding night. After you're married, I'm afraid you will have to submit to his baser whims. But we'll talk more about that on the eve of your wedding, shall we?”

Rose stood behind her mother, feeling ill. The picture her mother painted of marriage was nightmarish. He would do that and more when they were married. He would humiliate and hurt her and she could do nothing, say nothing? No wonder his first wife had always looked so pale.

She thought of her brother Adam and Georgette, so clearly in love, so happy together. She'd seen them kissing when they thought no one was watching and it had always seemed like such a lovely thing. So obviously not all marriages were frightening, nor were all men like the duke. Or maybe there was something wrong with her? Maybe she was supposed to have found pleasure in what he'd done? She shuddered at the thought.

“Who's walking on your grave?” her mother said on a small laugh.

Rose forced a smile. “Do you think you could accompany us on our walk today, Mother?”

Her mother gave her a chastising look. “Rose, you must not be silly about this. He is your intended and has already expressed his distaste of chaperones and being treated like a schoolboy. We dare not upset him at this critical time. Besides, Lady Simmons is arriving shortly. Now, go get ready for your duke, dear, will you? And please stop fretting.”

Thirty minutes later Rose stood outside the formal parlor, listening to the sound of her mother and Weston talking to one another. She knew if she crossed that threshold, she would be sentencing herself to being alone with the duke. And she also knew if she didn't, her mother would be angry and fetch her. She steeled herself and entered the parlor, unable to give the duke even a passing glance. She dreaded what she would see in his eyes.

“You have another lovely day for a walk,” her mother said pointedly.

Rose darted a look at the duke, who observed her with bland amusement. When she'd first met him, she'd thought him quite dashing. Now the sight of him made her physically ill. What was she going to do? How could she face a lifetime with a man she couldn't bear to look at? “Mother, I'm quite tired from yesterday's walk.”

“But you didn't even reach the lake. Cook commented that you and His Grace never got as far as the lake. All that food wasted.”

“I ate when I returned,” Rose pointed out, not wishing to argue. “And we walked quite far enough even if we didn't reach the lake.”

“I wish for a walk.” Both women turned to the duke as if they'd forgotten he was in the room. “Yesterday's walk was so . . . bracing.”

Oh, God. Rose wanted to run from the room, wanted to scream out what His Grace had made her do, what he had said after he'd made her do the despicable act.
Do not disappoint me, Rose. I do not want a timid wife. Perhaps it is not too late to call things off....

He knew what he'd been saying, what he was threatening. Please me or pay. Please me or I will ruin you by ending the engagement, by throwing you aside. He'd acted as if he were in his right to do what he did, that her reaction was childish and supremely distasteful. Was what he'd demanded something that was his right to demand? She was young and naive, and she had displeased him. And so, to her shame, she'd apologized, explained that she had never even been kissed, surely it was wrong for her to do something so . . . intimate without the benefit of marriage. He'd laughed and chucked her lightly under her chin as if she'd just spoken the most adorable nonsense.

She prayed he wouldn't expect her to do it again. Rose looked at him and he had that same hooded gaze he'd had yesterday and a secret smile that told her he knew what she was thinking.

“Perhaps you would like to join us, Mother,” Rose repeated, trying not to let her voice show her desperation.

“I cannot, dear. As I told you, Lady Simmons is visiting this afternoon and I must attend her.”

“Let's take our walk, shall we?” the duke said, rising and holding out his arm, indicating the door that led to the terrace.

Rose walked to him and tried to smile, for whose benefit she could not have said. When they reached the terrace, Rose looked up, praying for threatening clouds. Though the sky was not as bright as the previous day, the sun continued to shine through a milky layer of clouds that at the moment didn't seem to have a drop of rain in them. In the distance, she could see a field of poppies, swaying cheerfully in the gentle breeze, but the sight of her favorite flower did nothing to lift her mood.

“This is a walk, not a death sentence. You annoy me with your missish behavior,” Weston said.

“I am a miss, sir, after all.”

He looked at her with annoyance. “You should learn early on, my dear, that you will not argue with me. You will obey me in all things—
all
things—and you shall do so without complaint or hesitation. We can have a pleasant life together if you resign yourself to those simple demands. I am not an ogre, Rose, but I am a powerful man who will not tolerate an incompliant wife. Do you understand?”

Rose stared straight ahead, her hands fisting. “I understand, Your Grace.”

She saw from the side of her eye that he was looking at her, probably gauging whether she told the truth.

“I would like for us to be happy,” he said, his voice gentler, causing Rose to look up at him. “I do believe we are well suited. I pay you a compliment, my dear, and I am giving you the greatest of honors by asking you to be my wife. Do you not think a dozen other young ladies would step forward if our engagement were broken?”

“I do not wish that, Your Grace,” Rose said. Oh, but she did, she did.

“Good. You have pleased me. And you shall please me even more momentarily, I am certain of it.” He held out his arm and she took it, looking for all the world like a woman without a care. As they walked toward the path that would lead to the lake, Rose looked to the stables and wondered whether Moonrise had foaled. Charlie hadn't sent word, which worried her a bit. As if her thoughts conjured him, Charlie appeared at the large door and stood there, watching them, and Rose had the terrible urge to break away from the duke and run toward him. He lifted his head slightly, but she was too far away to see his expression. Then he nodded, once, and Rose smiled and looked back toward the path. Moonrise had had her foal, and for that small moment, she was filled with a bit of joy.