Scandalous Love (34 page)

If they shared so much
passion now, might he not one day come to love her?

She tried to remind
herself that he had married her out of duty. It no longer seemed quite so
relevant.

Nicole's hands trembled.
She should have never resisted this marriage. She should have never openly
displayed her anger in front of all their guests. She should not have attempted
to lock him out last night. Oh, how she hated her pride today! She realized
ruefully that she probably did not have any left. He had seen to that, last
night.

And she did not care.

There was a rapping on
her door. Nicole got up to answer it and found Mrs. Veig with Annie. The
housekeeper was looking anxious and holding a breakfast tray in her hands.
"Your Grace, I would never presume to bother you, but I could not help
hearing the bathwater." And she shot Annie a disapproving stare.

Nicole smiled. "I
am about to take a bath."

"You have staff to
prepare your bath, Your Grace," Mrs. Veig stated. Then her regard became
dark and accusing as she glared at little Annie. "Get in with you, girl!
Go and see that the bath is exactly as Her Grace likes it!"

"Yes'm!" Annie
fled.

Nicole blinked. She had
forgotten the extent of her new circumstances; she was no longer Lady Shelton,
she was the Duchess of Clayborough. And duchesses, she assumed, did not dare
prepare their own baths. "I'm sorry," she said.

But Mrs. Veig did not
hear, or she pretended not to, entering the room and setting the tray down on
the delicately wrought glass table in front of the hearth. A fire crackled
there, and the housekeeper turned to attend it, stoking it. Nicole wondered if
Hadrian—her husband— had made the fire for her before he left her bed at dawn.
"Did someone—Annie—come in this morning to tend to the hearth?"

"No, Your
Grace." Mrs. Veig was shocked. "I would never allow anyone to disturb
you unless you gave explicit orders to the contrary. Do you want your maid to
stoke up the fire at first light? She can do so quietly, without awakening
you."

Nicole wondered if
Hadrian would share her bed again tonight. "No, no, that's fine. I'm a
light sleeper, I would rather not be disturbed."

Mrs. Veig nodded, moving
towards the bed.

Nicole sat down somewhat
dumbly on the chaise, staring unseeingly at the tray of muffins, jam and tea.
Hadrian had left the fire for her. Such a small gesture. And she was moved to tears!

"Annie," Mrs.
Veig called sharply. "As soon as you finish in there, take these sheets to
the laundress, and then you may make the bed."

Nicole looked at Mrs.
Veig. The woman turned away, moving to the draperies on the other windows and
opening them automatically. Nicole's gaze widened as she stared at the bed.
There was a dark red stain right in the center of it and it looked like blood.

She could not believe
her eyes.

Nicole descended the
stairs slowly, uncertainly. This was her home now, but she felt like a
stranger, not like its mistress, and certainly not like a duchess. She had no
idea of where she was going, or what she should do, or be doing.

She was Hadrian's wife,
the Duchess of Clayborough. It was still incredible. But she smiled, unable to
forget being in his arms last night, or the look of warmth in his eyes. And
today, today he had stoked the fire for her. It was such a little act—yet for
Nicole, it was terribly significant.

She was his wife.
It wasn't so bad—it
wasn't bad at all. Maybe it could even work out, with a little effort on her
part. She was going to do her best to recoup the disastrous start. She was
going to do more than accept being his wife. She was going to try and be a good
wife—she was going to try and please him.
And win his love.

In case he was about the
house, she wanted to appear as a duchess should. She wanted to avoid her own
penchant for committing faux pas. She wanted to be proper. She had exercised
the utmost care in doing her toilette that morning. Annie had been there to
assist her, but the young maid knew about as much as Nicole did about proper
attire, and Nicole had not a clue as to how a duchess should dress in the
mornings. She was determined to dress properly. Fortunately, Mrs. Veig had been
with them, hovering about Annie, wanting to make sure Nicole's every need was
met.

Nicole's only need had
been to know what to wear. She did not want to appear ignorant, and she had
very casually asked Mrs. Veig what her preference was—if she liked this gown or
that. Flattered, the housekeeper had chosen a beautiful yellow and green
ensemble, the jacket tight-fitting and flared at the hip, the skirt draped
elaborately in the back. It was as Nicole suspected. Duchesses dressed. She
wasn't too happy with having to wear such finery so early in the day, but she
would do it.

As she crossed the
second floor, she passed a bevy of maids busily cleaning in the corridor, on
the landing and in the fantastic ballroom just off of the landing. Its doors
were flung wide open, revealing gleaming black and white marble floors, white
plastered columns, and a frescoed ceiling. Everyone swiftly curtsied to her
with the same chipper chorus, "Good morning, Your Grace."

Nicole slowly continued
her descent. She was a bit shaken by such deference; it was incredible. She was
even more shaken at the notion—and hope—that Hadrian might be somewhere in this
palace, and that she would see him. Her heart was already beating with
excitement.

On the ground floor she
paused. What did a duchess do with her time? Mrs. Veig had informed her that
dinner was at one,
if that
met with her approval, and Nicole had said it
had. It was only half past eleven. At some point she had to decide upon the
evening's supper menu, for Mrs. Veig had asked her what she would like to have
that night. Nicole could not care less what the chef prepared, but it seemed to
be important to Mrs. Veig that she determine the fare, so she would do so.

But first she must find
her husband. Didn't wives always greet their husbands with a cheery "good
morning?" Even duchesses? She hesitated somewhat nervously on the first
floor. Two liveried male servants stood ahead of her in the foyer keeping
vigilance upon the massive front doors. Nicole quickly approached them. They
both greeted her as all the other staff had that morning.

"Would you happen
to know where Hadrian is? I mean," she flushed, "where His Grace
might be?"

The men were impassive,
not cracking even the slightest smile at her blunder. The elder answered.
"He has not yet gone out, Your Grace. You might try his study, or the
green library."

"And where are
those rooms?"

"His study's down
the hall, tenth door on your left. His library is upstairs on the third floor,
the door before his suite. There's a library on every floor," he explained
kindly, seeing her questioning expression.

Nicole set off for his
study. The two gleaming red doors were closed. She was trembling now, and a
fantasy assailed her, one in which Hadrian rose from behind his desk to embrace
her eagerly as she entered his domain. How silly she was being. She knocked.

Inside, the Duke had
been trying to attend to the matter of several accounts, without much success,
all that morning. Usually he spent the mornings out on his estate on horseback.
This morning, after leaving his new bride snuggled up beneath the velvet
bedcovers, he had chosen to do paperwork in his office—and await her.

He was an early riser,
and today, despite last night, had been no exception. Indeed, he doubted he had
actually slept more than an hour or two. But he was not tired. To the contrary,
there was no mistaking the exhilaration flowing in his veins.

And it was because of
his wife.

His wife.

All morning he had
tested that phrase, silently, with no small amount of satisfaction. He was
surprised with the intensity of the satisfaction he felt, and the
possessiveness that went with it. Nor could he stop thinking about her. His
obsession had magnified a hundredfold, not decreased. But what did it matter?
For now she was his. He could be as obsessed with her as he damned well wanted
to be.

Would she have softened
after the incredible night they had shared? His heart leapt at the thought. Or
would she, with the morning light, be her old recalcitrant, pride-ful self?
Would they do battle—or would they establish a truce?

At the soft rapping upon
his doors he lunged to his feet, knocking a stack of papers from his desk. He
bent to retrieve them hastily, knowing it was Nicole who stood outside his door
and knowing too, full well, that she was the cause of his blundering. Deciding
to sort out the mess later, he placed the stack haphazardly on his desk—his
desk which had never been less than neat and tidy. He strode quickly across the
study and opened the two doors.

Her cheeks flamed when
their gazes met. For one instant, neither spoke, both gazing at each other,
perhaps assessing each other's humor.

"Good
morning," Nicole said.

"Good
morning," he replied politely. It was hard to keep emotion out of his
voice, emotions he dared not analyze.
But the colors were there,
rainbow-hued, and they had never been so bright.

When he realized she was
standing in the hallway, he quickly stepped aside. "Please, come in."

"Thank you."

He closed the door
behind her, thinking that she was the most gorgeous creature he had ever seen,
and that yellow—bright vivid yellow—was a magnificent color on her. Topazes, he
thought. He would buy her topazes.

She strolled into the
center of the room. He watched her. She turned, smiling deliberately,
uncertainly. He managed to smile back. Neither one of them were wearing their
hearts on their sleeve, he realized. But he also saw that she was not a
shrieking hussy. Today she was trying to be as cautious and polite as he was.
That in itself declared some sort of existing truce.

"Did you sleep
well?" he finally ventured into the lengthening silence. It was impossible
not to think of her physically, not to be aware of her physically. He was warm,
the room was warm. He wondered what her reaction would be if he swept her into
his arms and made love to her on the sofa.

"Yes. No. Not
really." This time a small bubbly laugh escaped her.

This time his smile, in
response, was genuine.

Their glances locked.

Nervously, Nicole turned
away first. "I just wanted to say hello."

"I'm glad."

Her head whipped around,
she stared.

He felt himself
flushing, so now he turned away, too. What if she should guess the truth? That
he wanted her to be acquiescent to him—that he wanted her to be more than
acquiescent? "Would you like to meet the staff?"

"Oh, yes," she
said eagerly.

He gestured to her and
she moved to him. He opened the door for her and allowed her to precede him
out. "After the introductions are made," he said, again, acutely
aware of the sexual tension between them, "I must leave to take care of
matters I have neglected for far too long."

"Oh."

Was she disappointed? He
hoped he wasn't being a fool to think so—to hope so. "Mrs. Veig serves a
luncheon at one. If you do not care for the schedule, change it as you
would."

"One is fine."

It was very hard to walk
beside her and not accost her, he realized. Last night's complete abandon made
it even worse. He knew he was being utterly selfish to even contemplate how he
might discreetly and deviously cry off his responsibilities and take her back
upstairs. She was probably in no shape to entertain her lusty husband this
morning. Still, he could not get the notion out of his mind.

The introductions took
an hour. The staff that maintained the residence of Clayborough numbered one
hundred and ten. In addition, there was the rest of the staff to consider, the
gardeners, the gamekeepers, the park manager, the stableboys, the grooms, the
stablemaster, the trainer, the kennelmaster, the kennelmen, the coachmen, the
footmen and the outriders. There were also two masons and four carpenters, for,
as the Duke explained, there were always repairs to be made to such an old
home.

He walked her back to
the house, if such a sprawling palatial residence could possibly be called
such. At the front door he turned her over to Mrs. Veig and Woodward.
"Enjoy your dinner, Madam. I am sorry I cannot join you." His tone
was formal, but his regret was sincere.

"I
understand," Nicole said, her eyes upon his booted feet. "What time
will you be back, er, my lord?"

His brow shot up and he
smiled at the careful form of address she chose. But it had been the proper
form of address, just as she had appeared the picture of propriety this entire
morning. Had his wife decided upon more than a truce, had she had a change of
heart? And was it wise for him to be so pleased with the prospect—with her?

"I intend to return
by six-thirty. If you care to, you can meet me in the red salon for a sherry
before supper, at seven-thirty. Supper is at eight. Unless, of course, that
does not meet with your approval."