What a Duke Dares (28 page)
He paused in the hallway under the cold stare of the marble Roman worthies. His habit since his marriage was to have a quiet brandy in his library, then undress before seeking Pen.
Thomas opened the library door. Cam stared into the starkly masculine room as his mind sifted the quarrel—or what they’d managed of a quarrel before reaching home. It was clear that Pen regretted her frankness. Which cut at his heart. Once he’d thought they could share anything. But that was long ago.
She was upstairs preparing for bed, even though within the hour, if every other night was any indication, her nightdress would be a tangled heap on the floor. Right now her maid was brushing out Pen’s shining hair and turning back the covers. There Pen would lie waiting for him. After they’d got past their disastrous wedding night, he’d assumed she enjoyed their encounters, but tonight’s acerbic comment made him wonder.
Damn it, did she welcome him to her bed only to make the best of a bad job?
Sick anger flooded him. Not with Pen. With himself. He couldn’t bear to be a bad job.
He shook his head at Thomas and climbed the stairs two at a time toward his wife’s ornate bedroom. Fleetingly in the carriage, the possibility of genuine honesty had hovered. Then Pen had backed away. Cam couldn’t accept that.
Tonight he wouldn’t give her a chance to prepare for him the way a city prepared for siege. Tonight, he’d mount a surprise attack and see what lay hidden behind the city walls.
P
en sat at her dressing table as her maid brushed her hair. The activity didn’t soothe as it usually did. Instead a headache beat at her temples and the gaze she met in the mirror was defeated. Three weeks married and she felt like she’d aged twenty years. Heaven help her if she lasted to Christmas.
Troubling memories from the night circled like growling dogs. Harry’s palpable desperation. The Hillbrooks’ politely concealed wariness. The avid curiosity in every face at the musicale. Her noxious argument with Cam. The familiar emptiness in her soul.
The door opened and hit the wall with a very un-Cam-like bang. Pen started, wrenching against Jane’s downward stroke. “Ouch!”
“Your pardon, Your Grace,” Jane stammered to Pen. She curtsied to Cam. “Your Grace.”
In the mirror, Cam’s expression wasn’t reassuring. Still Pen’s voice emerged with commendable steadiness. “You may go, Jane. I’ll finish here.”
“Very well, Your Grace.”
Cam hardly glanced in the girl’s direction as she slipped past. Instead his attention fixed on Pen.
Sick of confused emotions, she set the heavy brush down with an audible click. “There’s no need to terrify the staff, Your Grace.”
With his jaw set in adamantine lines, he shut the door. He was careful closing it, which struck her as more alarming than another show of temper. She recalled the days when she’d believed that Cam had no temper to lose.
“If you ever call me ‘Your Grace’ again, I’ll have the press-gangs kidnap Harry and send him to a mosquito-ridden swamp in Panama.”
That didn’t sound like a joke. “I’m trying to be a proper duchess.”
To fit in with his image of the ideal wife, tonight she’d minded her manners, she’d smiled like a fool, and she’d kept any controversial opinions to herself. Even worse, she’d worn a dress for her London debut that she wouldn’t put on a scarecrow.
Everyone had seemed to approve. Everyone except Cam. Clearly he had impossibly high standards.
“A proper duchess pleases her duke.”
Once she’d have treated that arrogant statement with the contempt it deserved. But that was before she’d saddled Cam with her wanton reputation. “I’m sorry I’m not ready,” she said dully, standing. “Would you like help undressing?”
He scowled as he leaned against the door frame and folded his arms. “I’d like you to talk to me,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument.
Her jaw dropped in astonishment. “Talk?”
For three weeks, he’d come to her room in a lather of passion. His unsteady breathing and the color lining his
slashing cheekbones betrayed that he wanted her now. Yet he wanted to talk?
“Yes.”
She backed against the dressing table, hooking her hands over the polished mahogany edge. “What on earth can we talk about?”
His eyebrow rose in that superior expression that always made her itch to clout him. Or at least it had before she’d sworn to become a conformable spouse. “I don’t know,” he said sarcastically. “What could two people linked together for life and with no idea of what the other one is thinking say? Perhaps we could discuss the weather.”
“There’s no need to be rude.”
“I think there is.” He sauntered in her direction.
To her relief, he stopped a few feet away, although his searching regard stirred terrified flurries in her belly. She’d learned to hide her emotions in bed, and she stayed out of his way during the day. His actions tonight set a precedent, one that troubled her.
“You’re never rude,” she said despairingly. “You’re a model of behavior.”
He frowned. “I never thought you were.”
“I’ll do better.” She bowed her head and studied the pink embroidered slippers peeping from under her voluminous white nightdress.
He didn’t immediately respond. He advanced until she saw the toes of his black shoes at the edge of her vision. “Pen, you don’t have to turn yourself inside out,” he said softly.
The patch of floor became watery at the edges. She blinked to clear her sight and mumbled, “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“I do.” He spoke almost musingly. “Not long ago, you’d
have sent me to the devil if I’d said that mutton-headed thing about pleasing me.”
“We weren’t married then,” she said sadly.
The regret in his sigh crushed her soul. “Pen, look at me.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Do you know what I’ve always admired about you?” The sudden change to tenderness slid over her, softer than her lovely velvet cloak.
She tensed. How she wished he’d go away. Or throw her on the bed and thrust into her. Or yell. “I can’t imagine.”
He laughed, still with that affectionate note that reminded her that he was the only man she’d ever held in her heart. Now that he was there, he was like a worm in an apple, gradually destroying her from within. “Well, there’s your complete lack of vanity.”
Eventually curiosity forced her to speak. “Is that what you admire?”
“I admire that. But it’s not what I admire most.”
She sucked in a breath. He was so close that she smelled his sandalwood soap. “Won’t you say?”
“Not unless you look at me.”
Her throat was so tight that it hurt to swallow. “I can’t bear the disappointment I see in your face,” she said on a mere thread of sound.
“Oh, Pen…”
She jumped when one hand caught her chin. “I’m making a mess of this marriage thing.”
“No, I am. We rushed into this.”
She tried to retreat, but the dressing table trapped her. “We didn’t have any choice.” She paused. “
You
didn’t have any choice.”
This time his sigh held a hint of frustration. “God give
me strength, woman. Don’t tell me you’re eating yourself up with guilt.”
Now that he didn’t sound so likely to fold her in his arms, she let him tilt her face up. Then wished to God she hadn’t, that she’d taken to her heels the minute he’d stormed in.
Cam stared at her as if she was his single concern in the world, as though her happiness mattered more than his next breath.
It was a lie, she staunchly insisted. But how could she heed common sense when the man she adored regarded her with such care? She licked her lips again and noticed with sparking heat how his eyes focused on the betraying movement.
“I didn’t realize how much it cost you to save me from ruin until you told me about the gossip. By then it was too late. We were married.”
A flash of bitterness lit his green eyes. “All your escapades were innocent. Nobody knows that better than I.”
She leveled her shoulders and confronted him with the truth. “After a life devoted to restoring the family name, you’ve attached yourself to a woman with a questionable past and rebellious habits.”
Comprehension lit his expression. “So you’re trying to become the ideal duchess.” She flinched at the sarcastic edge he placed on “ideal duchess.” “By calling me ‘Your Grace’ and trying to fade into the wallpaper.”
“I don’t want to do any more damage.” She swallowed. “I can’t do anything about being a Thorne or about the stories or about not being the woman you wanted to marry, but I can try to be a credit to you.”
His lips flattened in vexation. “You are a credit to me.”
Her glance was disbelieving. “Obviously.”
He caught her shoulders. “Pen, you are the woman I wanted to marry.”
This was too much for even her besotted mind to accept. A hollow laugh escaped. “Cam, you’re such a gentleman, but there’s no point lying.”
“You’re the only woman I’ve proposed to. And I did it twice. What further commitment can a man demonstrate?” His grip tightened and she wondered if he meant to shake her. He looked like he wanted to. “How can such a clever woman be so stupid?”
She glared at him. “How can such a clever man expect a woman of the slightest intelligence to accept this flannel? We both know that your heart was set on Marianne Seaton.”
His jaw squared in rejection of her accusation. “Hardly my heart.”
He warned Pen to tread carefully and not bring messy emotions into their dealings. But he’d forced her into this awkward, revealing conversation. He could damn well take the consequences. “She was your choice.”
He shrugged as if it hardly mattered. “She was a suitable bride.”
“And I’m not.”
“Actually I find myself surpassingly grateful that you married me.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
Impatiently he ran his hand through his hair. “A gentleman shouldn’t say this, but much as I admire Lady Marianne, life with her might have lacked… excitement.”
Gloomily Pen surveyed him. “Excitement can be uncomfortable.”
“And it can make a man glad to be alive. It can make him look forward to waking up every morning. And going to bed every night.”
She flushed. “Sexual attraction will fade.”
He frowned. “I want you more every day.”
Be careful, Pen. If you pay too much heed, he’ll break your heart again.
“It’s early days yet,” she said sourly. “You’ll become jaded with my charms.”
“You’re looking at me.”
She frowned, not understanding the change of subject. “So?”
“I promised that when you did, I’d tell you what I admired most.”
“So I assume that’s what you like most, your desire for me.” She tried to sound displeased. Whereas the pathetic truth was that she basked in his attentions like a cat in a patch of sunlight on a cold day.
“Well, it’s no drawback. You seem compelled to concentrate on the disadvantages of our union. After three weeks, I’d say the benefits far outweigh the inconveniences. Even with you moping like a schoolboy stuck inside on a wet holiday.”
“I haven’t been that bad,” she said, stung.
“Yes, you have. But I’ll set you right tonight.”
How could she love him and want to punch him at the same time? “I await your wisdom.”
He brushed his lips across hers. It was an affectionate kiss, different from the deep, passionate, hungry kisses he gave her in bed. She was on the verge of sinking against him when he raised his head.
“What I admire about you, dear Penelope, what I’ve always admired, ever since you rode that half-broken pony at the age of three, is your courage.”
Her heart dipped like a swallow in flight, leaving her dizzy. Oh, dear, she was in so much trouble. When he said things like this, when he made her feel that he and only he peered into her soul, she wanted to melt. Worse, she wanted to confess how desperately she loved him.
“It was a courageous act to marry you,” she said with that same edge, hoping he wouldn’t hear how she struggled to sound unaffected.
Her response didn’t stir his temper. She wondered where his anger in the coach had gone. “It was indeed.”
His intense stare made her shift uncomfortably. It was all very well for him to peer into her soul, but she had secrets. Old ones like her love, and more recent ones like her promise to Harry.
“Now I want you to find the courage to be yourself. I want you to find the courage to build something from this marriage, something strong and safe.”
“London won’t approve of me,” she snapped back. She didn’t trust this turnaround. All her life, she’d known Cam wanted a biddable duchess. He must know that if Pen was true to herself, biddable was the last description to apply.
“I will. Remember, a proper duchess pleases her duke.”
“You won’t say that when everybody’s pitying you for marrying an outspoken hoyden.”
One black eyebrow arched. “If you stop dressing like a damned grandmother, London will be so dazzled, nobody will care what you say.”
She scowled, even as she wondered if perhaps he was right about her meekness being impossible to maintain. “Tonight’s dress cost you a fortune.”
He laughed softly. “A damned rich grandmother.”