Sarah and Prudence did their best to protect their friend, but their defense had little effect. By marrying Charles Locke, Sarah had lost her title as baroness. Though her fortune allowed her to remain in Society, it afforded her no special rank. Poor Prudence was nothing more than a pretty young lady of no lineage and little means.
Anne tried to hold up her chin, but Mrs. Davies’s instruction in manners proved useless beneath the onslaught of snide comments and digging retorts flung at the bride from “friends of the family” who gathered around the long mahogany table in the formal dining room. Mr. Errand’s lengthy lists of ancestors, descriptions of coats of arms, and maps of family properties did little to deflect the volleys launched at the newest member of the Chouteau dynasty.
By the time the last pies and puddings had been eaten, Anne’s stomach had twisted into a Gordian knot she was certain nothing could untie. Swathed in a hideous gown that Sarah and Prudence had pulled out from some clothier’s contribution to her trousseau—a wedding cake of pink silk, pink ribbons, and rows of pink lace at the hem—she felt sure her cheeks matched her dress to perfection. Never in her life, not even when her father had been cast into prison, had she felt so humiliated. The Reverend Webster’s stand in support of the Luddites of his parish had held a righteous tone, and his imprisonment made him a hero for their cause. Anne felt like nothing more glorious than a spitted pig, roasted over a fire, slowly carved apart piece by piece.
Fortunately the marquess had been seated at the opposite end of the long table, which released her from having to act as if she adored him through dinner. Unfortunately his distant position prevented his championing his new wife. Sir Alexander had decided to continue his attentions to Prudence, complicating everything and adding to Anne’s turmoil. Mr. Walker might have helped her, but he had declined dinner, saying he was stiff from travel and wanted to walk in the gardens.
When the ladies at last retired to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their masculine pursuits, Anne seized the opportunity to escape. She hurried up to her suite of rooms, dug her Bible out of her trunk, and read three chapters in First Corinthians. Sensible words on the qualities of Christian love—patience, kindness, forbearance—strengthened her, and she began to feel that she might return safely to the lion’s den below. Perhaps indeed she would be able to resist the temptation to slap the next young lady who made mention of her “poor, poor relations” who must be ecstatic at her “astounding and unexpected connubial state” to the Marquess of Blackthorne.
It was her own fault, Anne realized as she sat miserably on the bed. Had she been as interested in God’s will as her own, she might have bothered to ask His advice and assistance earlier. Now she was paying for her sin by suffering ridicule and persecution. Worse, she could see no happy ending to the muddle she had made of her life. Even if her father were freed and her family were cared for financially for the rest of their lives, she could not escape this dreadful marriage. And if the marquess were the blackguard he seemed, then why, oh why, had she enjoyed his embrace this afternoon? Why did she find her attention drawn to him time and again? How could she rid herself of the constant desire to talk with the man, to feel his hand on hers, to know the sweet brush of his kiss?
Somewhat calmed after her time in Scripture reading, Anne returned to the drawing room and realized—to her satisfaction— that tables of cards already had been set up and filled. The pianoforte was occupied, and ladies of varying ages had gathered around the instrument to sing while their husbands discussed the latest doings of that “flagitious tyrant,” Napoleon. Spotting a shelf of books, Anne made for it like a magnet to iron. She grabbed the first volume of the history of Russia, found a chair in the corner, sat down, and began to read.
“How are the czars getting on these days?”
She knew the voice without looking up. “Famously, Lord Blackthorne.”
“And you?” He knelt beside her and spoke barely above a whisper. “Still in one piece, or have the vultures torn you asunder?”
She set her finger on the page to hold her place and lifted her head. “Sir, I—”
The look on his face stopped her. His eyes had softened to a quiet dove gray, and they searched hers as if reading them were the most important thing in the world. He took her hand and brought it to his lips. As his head bent, she gazed down at the rumple of silky black curls and felt a jolt run through her chest.
“My love, that shade of pink quite lights up your face.” His expression was tender, but his mouth lifted slightly at the corners. “You are as enchanting as a new rose this evening.”
And then, of course, she remembered. The bargain. She glanced away from him to find every eye in the room turned their way. Fixing her attention on him again, she forced her lips into a smile. “Thank you, dearest. You flatter me most becomingly.”
“Did you enjoy your first dinner in your new home, my sweet?” he murmured, just loud enough for everyone present to hear.
“The leg of lamb was exquisite and the filet of veal sumptuous. My compliments to the cook. Oh, Ruel . . .” On an impulse, she reached out and stroked the side of his face with the back of her hand. At the touch of his smooth, taut skin, her heart began to hammer. Willing it to silence, she painted a coy expression on her face. “I missed you dreadfully, my dear. You seemed miles and miles away at the other end of the table.”
“Indeed I was.” He took her hand and kissed her palm and then her wrist. Taking a deep breath, he shut his eyes. “Lavender. This was the scent you wore when we met.”
“Ah, yes, we stood together in that enchanting room filled with mingled scents and succulent treats.”
He chuckled at her reference to the sooty kitchen at Slocombe. “You are my succulent treat, beautiful Anne.”
“Oh, Ruel, my dearest love . . .” She leaned against him and whispered into his ear. “You are a blackguard.”
Throwing back his head, he laughed aloud. “Little minx!”
He slipped an arm around her waist and stood, bringing Anne to her feet. Holding her closely against him, he extended a hand toward the open French doors that led onto a long walk. “A promenade, my love? The air is quite warm, and the moonlight beckons.”
She tipped her head. “Indeed it does.”
Eyes locked in an eternal gaze, they wandered out onto the flagstone path. A ripple of sighs from the company in the drawing room was followed by the urgent return to gossip and recountings of what had just been witnessed.
At the flush of color that had spread up Anne’s neck, Ruel found he could hardly resist the charming young woman. Though she had played the part of a blushing bride with the skill of a London actress, he sensed there might be some genuine pleasure in her response to his flirtation. Could it be that she had never heard such words from a man?
He entertained the hope that his reluctant wife might let down her guard against him, but the moment they stepped into the shadows of an overhanging swag of ivy, she pulled away.
“I am going to my rooms,” she said.
“Not so fast.” The marquess caught her and drew her under his arm again.
“That is quite enough now, sir!”
“Enough for whom?” His grin broadened. “I find I am enjoying our little drama immensely, my darling wife. Come stand with me here in this patch of moonlight, and let us give our guests a bit of a show.”
“Whatever can you mean?”
He turned her into his arms and leaned her into the pale, buttery glow of the moon. The vision that greeted him in that instant left him momentarily speechless. In his effort to ignore this woman since their wedding, Ruel had reminded himself she was a commoner, hardly educated, quite plain, actually, and of little consequence. In short, she was nothing.
Indeed, he had almost made himself forget the upward tilt of her eyes and the soft angle of her nose. But now she lifted her chin and turned her liquid chocolate eyes on him, and he suddenly remembered why he had been so determined to save her life and make her his own. Her soft shawl slipped off one shoulder to reveal delicate bone and alabaster skin. Her long neck arched upward. Her pink lips parted as she breathed in rapid, shallow gasps.
She was enticing and enchanting, and he wanted her more than he had wanted any woman. Yet even now she was distancing herself, backing away from him, ready to escape like a wisp of lace caught in an afternoon breeze.
“I cannot tell you how intoxicating I find the scent of your skin.”
“Sir, release me this minute!”
Her voice was a hiss of confused desperation. He found her dismay amusing . . . amazing . . . and powerfully stimulating. “Hold me, Anne,” he murmured against her ear. “We are being observed from the drawing room, and we must not let down our façade for a moment.”
“But this is . . . this is—”
“Soft, very soft.” His lips caressed her cheek. “Very fragrant—”
“You promised not to touch me,” she sputtered. “You made me a vow.”
“You promised to prove to everyone that we are madly in love. What better way than this . . . here, in the midst of those most intimate with my family?” He lifted her chin. “Do my attentions disturb you, Anne?”
“Of course. I am not accustomed to . . . to this sort of thing, and you should not . . .”
“I must say, I find your consternation most intriguing.” He pulled her closer, relishing the curve of her waist against his hand. “You see, were this truly no more than a bargain between us, and had you nothing but contempt for me, you would merely perform your role in a perfunctory manner. Instead, you blush and sigh and avert your eyes in a beguiling way. And every time I hold you in my arms, you seem to have the most dreadful time breathing.”
“I do not!” she puffed.
“In fact, my dear Anne, I have come to the conclusion that you have never been properly wooed.”
“Rubbish. William Green the gamekeeper wooed me.”
“That boor?”
“As did a young man in Nottingham.” She squared her shoulders. “A man I plan to marry someday.”
“A weaver, no doubt.”
“A farmer.”
“Oh, a farmer. How charming. Tell me, Anne, did your young farmer kiss this particular place on your shoulder?” He drew a line with his fingertip. “Or perhaps here?”
She grabbed his hand. “Beast!”
“Beauty.” He took her hand, forced it behind her back, and pulled her close. “Contrary to my original assumption, I do not believe you have ever been loved, Anne Webster Chouteau, Lady Blackthorne, future Duchess of Marston. I doubt you have even been kissed.”
Before she could push at him again, he covered her lips with his mouth. Against him she stiffened and took in a deep breath. He softened the kiss, suddenly determined to explore the fascinating shape of those lips that could speak with such vehemence and smile with such radiance.
“Anne,” he whispered. “Kiss me.”
“Oh, dear.” A sigh of pleasure escaped, and then she caught herself. “Lord Blackthorne, I—”
“Ruel.”
“I think we have performed quite well enough to convince anyone.”
“I am convinced.” He kissed her again. “Are you convinced, Anne?”
“That you should not take such liberties again. Yes, I am quite sure of it. And will you please . . .”
He shook his head. “No, I shall not.”
The longer he kissed this woman, the more certain he became that he had to have her as his wife in every sense of that word. Never in his life had he felt such desire. She longed for him, too, whether she would admit it or not.
“Anne, come with me.” He could hardly force the words out. “Upstairs. We shall hardly be missed.”
“No—”
“Yes!” He caught her shoulders. Staring down at her, he could see the longing in her eyes. “There is so much more to learn of each other.”
“Ruel, the bargain—”
“Hang the bargain. I want you.”
“Blackthorne? Are you out here?” It was his brother. Sir Alexander stood in the doorway, squinting into the darkness.
“The guests are going, Blackthorne.”
“Wish them off yourself, Alex.”
The younger man walked toward them, his face pulled into a frown. “What are you doing? Kissing, is it?”
“She is my wife. I shall do what I like with her.”
“Will you sire children with her, then? Jeopardize the duchy?”
Ruel clenched his teeth. “Go back inside the house, Alex. You disturb our reverie.”
“Upon my honor, I cannot allow you to do this!”
Anne backed up against a pillar as the marquess grabbed his brother’s arm. “This is not your affair, Alex.”
“But it is. Do you think I shall stand by while the duchy passes to a child born of you and this . . . this wench?”
“Get out!”
“Swear you will not touch her!” Alex’s face went red as he took a step toward Anne. “She is nothing but a housemaid. A conniving little schemer.”
“Stand back from her, brother, I warn you.”
“Look at this mouse.” Alex jerked Anne into the moonlight. “She is common. She is nothing. Dally with every woman from Soho to Belgravia, Ruel, but not her.” He shook Anne for emphasis. “Not her.”
“Take your hands off my wife.” He pushed his brother’s chest. “You cannot know what you say, Alex. Let her go.”