When the Duchess Said Yes (27 page)

His mother glared at him, not amused, and without answering looked back to Lizzie. “You must make your place known in society, Duchess. If you do not make yourself accepted, then your children never shall be, either.”

“That’s rubbish,” Hawke said, more bored by this argument than angry. “I’m an English duke with the blood of a king. No one ignores me. I ignore them.”

His mother muttered wordlessly, and if she swore, she would have sworn then. “I vow, Hawke, there are times that I cannot believe you are your father’s son. He understood the responsibilities of his rank and position, and appreciated the good fortune that came with it. If he could hear you now—”

“Then it’s an excellent thing he cannot,” Hawke interrupted, for this was an ancient tirade indeed from his mother. “I am far different from Father, and as unlikely to change as he was himself.”

His mother’s mouth was so tightly compressed that
her lips had nearly disappeared, made extinct by whatever force she was using to bite back her words. A good thing it was, too, for nothing she said would change him, or bring back his father, either, in this old and bitter argument between them.

But his mother wasn’t the only one who’d fallen suddenly, awkwardly silent. Both Lady Hervey and Lady Sanborn stared studiously down at their teacups, as if the secret to a more genial conversation lay inside.

Hawke sighed and looked to Lizzie beside him, expecting her to offer reassurance and support. But the expression on her face was more doubtful than supportive, more uncertain than reassuring. He’d never seen that particular look from her before, and it unsettled him. She was also blushing, not prettily, but miserably; perhaps that little jest likening their lovemaking to amorous rabbits had been inopportune. He hadn’t realized how important her trust had become to him in the short time they’d been wed—until now, when it seemed so suddenly, sadly missing.

It pained him to see the obvious effort it took her to smile at the others.

“Does anyone wish more tea?” she asked, too brightly. “Or whatever else you please. I can send—”

“Thank you, no, Duchess,” his mother said. She set her cup down on the table beside her and rose, and the others quickly followed. “I only pray that you consider well what we have said, and take heed before it is too late. Good day to you.”

The farewells were swiftly said and curtseys made, with only Lady Hervey lingering to take Lizzie’s hand in her own. She didn’t seem to care that she stood in Hawke’s hearing, too, or perhaps she intended to.

“Tell me, dear, please do,” she said, searching Lizzie’s face. “Are you happy? Is that the true reason you and
the duke have kept yourselves away from the world? That you cannot bear to share your joy?”

Hawke looked past them, pretending not to be listening.

But Lizzie didn’t care if he heard or not.

“Oh, yes, Mama, yes!” she said in a happy rush that could not be feigned. “I cannot tell you how happy I—we—are to be wed!”

“That is all I wished to hear,” Lady Hervey said, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

She kissed Lizzie and patted her cheek, then turned to Hawke.

“You’re taking excellent care with my daughter, Duke,” she said, her smile warm in a way that his own mother’s never was. “I trust she is treating you with the same tenderness and regard?”

“Mama!” Lizzie exclaimed, her cheeks crimson, but Hawke only laughed and looped his arms around her.

“I could not ask for more, Lady Hervey,” he said. “Nothing at all.”

He showed Lizzie that, too, hurrying her upstairs and scattering clothes along the way even before his mother’s carriage had left their drive. It was a fine way to spend the rest of the afternoon, made even more enjoyable by having sent the harpies on their way. If Lady Hervey had asked him if he was happy, too, his reply might have been even more exuberant than Lizzie’s.

It was that boundless happiness that made him do something he very rarely did. Afterward, when he and Lizzie lay sprawled and drowsy in his bed, he apologized.

“I’m sorry about the boat,” he said softly. “I intended it to please you, to remind you of boats you must have had at Ransom. I thought you’d like it. I never intended for things to become all twisted around as they did, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

She rolled over, resting her hands on his chest. “You remembered that I’d told you about how I could row. That was the best part. You listened to what I said, and you remembered. And it is a very nice boat.”

“Well, then, there you are,” he said, an empty bit of verbiage, but the best he could muster when he was feeling so contented. “The canal’s likely not much of a challenge, but I can have the boat brought down to the river if you wish.”

“No,” she said quickly. “No. I saw how the real watermen maneuvered their craft, and there are far too many currents and eddies for me to master.”

“Then we can have it brought with us to the country,” he said. “There’s a sizable pond, almost a lake, near one of the follies at the Hall.”

“Now, that would be much better,” she said. “I like to row, but I’ve no desire to drown. Faith, can you picture what the news sheets would say of that? ‘Rowing Duchess Lost in the Thames.’ ”

She laughed, but he couldn’t, not at a jest that featured her death. To lose her in any way—no, there was nothing amusing about that. He drew her a little closer, hoping she understood.

She sighed happily, so happily that he’d never have suspected what came next.

“When your mother was here,” she said softly, “why were you so sharp toward her?”

He tensed. He couldn’t help it. “I wasn’t aware that I was particularly sharp toward her.”

“You were,” she said, “and you know it, too, else you wouldn’t be denying it now. You never speak of your father. What about him was so dreadful?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Not in the dazzled eyes of the world, anyway, nor in my mother’s, either. If you’d like a complete catalogue of his inestimable virtues, you shall have to ask her.”

She rested her chin on her hands and looked directly into his eyes so that he couldn’t hide. She was good at that; it was a pity she was female, else she’d make an excellent judge on the bench.

“Her catalogue, however inestimable, does not interest me nearly as much as yours,” she said, smoothing her hair behind one ear. “Which is why I’ve asked you.”

“Very well, then,” he said, adding an exasperated sigh that even he could tell was overdone. “My father was a paragon in every way. He was a confidant to the king, a leader in the House of Lords, a benefactor to whoever needed his aid. Although I was his only son, I am not like him in any way, as my charming mother has repeatedly and endlessly explained in the event I did not realize the fact for myself.”

“Ah,” she said, gently noncommittal. “Ah.”

“What the devil do you mean by that?” he demanded. He wanted her to say more. No, he
needed
her to say more, a realization that appalled him.

“I mean that expectations to be like another are a loathsome burden,” she said, clearly choosing her words with care. “For as long as I can recall, my sister Charlotte has been held before me as a worthy model to emulate. I love Charlotte most dearly, but I do not wish to be her. I would suppose that it would be the same with your father.”

“I have never once wanted to be my father,” he said, thinking of how his father’s tedious life had been centered on Parliament and good works, and of how his own, infinitely more pleasant, lay in Naples. “Not once.”

“Why should you, when you are such a fine gentleman in your own right?” she said, leaning forward to kiss him lightly. “My dearest, dearest Hawke! Your mother should appreciate you for what you are, not wish you to be what you are not. But just as you have
resolved not to change, I think it unlikely that she’ll change, either.”

“She will not,” he said, never more definite about anything in his life. “Not at all.”

“But you see, there is the conundrum,” she said, smiling wryly. “Your mother wishes you to be your father, when in truth you are much more like her than you will ever be like him.”

He scowled, not sure he liked this particular conclusion. He and his mother had been at odds his entire life; he’d often wondered how she’d managed to tolerate him for the nine months necessary to give him birth. How could he possibly resemble the queen of all harpies? Yet the more he considered what Lizzie said, the more he realized how much sense she made.

“The only difference,” she continued, “is that you are younger, and therefore still capable of change. That is, if you wish to.”

“I am a duke,” he said, unable to resist one last bit of stubbornness. “I do not have to change for anyone.”

“You were a mere earl before you became a duke,” she argued lightly. “You were an earl longer than you’ve been a duke. Earls can change much more easily than dukes.
If
you wish to.”

He sighed again. “How do you wish me to change?”

“
I
don’t wish you to change at all,” she said succinctly. “That is how I shall be stubborn, for I’ve no intention of being one of those wives who attempt to make over their husbands. If
you
wish to do things differently in your life, then you will. If you don’t, then you won’t. I’ll be quite content either way.”

“Praise be for small miracles,” he said with a grunt. “You exhaust me, Duchess.”

She smiled, a smile that was dangerously close to being a leer as she trailed her fingers down his chest and over his belly.

“Fah,” she said. “I can think of a much more interesting way to exhaust you, Duke.”

He caught her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing it lightly.

“In a moment, sweeting,” he said. “I have a confession to make first. About the boat.”

“Goodness,” she said with interest, smoothing her hair back behind her ears, the better to listen. “An apology, a revelation, and a confession! Surely you must have been transformed by your voyage aboard the Boat of Truth.”

“Oh, to the devil with your Boat of Truth,” he scoffed, unable not to laugh. “I am attempting to speak in complete seriousness. The reason I didn’t offer to row you up and down that infernal canal was that I can’t. I don’t know how. I’m a complete ignoramus when it comes to seafaring.”

“Rowing is hardly seafaring,” she said earnestly. “I could teach you.”

“I think not,” he said. “One oarsman—or oarswoman—beneath this roof is enough.”

“Oarswoman? Truly?” She narrowed her eyes with disapproval, and he laughed again. She’d never believe he hadn’t meant it that way, not that it particularly mattered.

“Isn’t that what you are?” he teased. “An oarswoman?”

“
Oarswoman
sounds terribly disreputable, Hawke,” she said, swatting him to make her point. “But I do appreciate you not taking the oars and pretending you could do it if you can’t. Perhaps that’s not being very ducal of you, admitting that you’re not able to do everything.”

“I am not so vastly stubborn after all, am I?”

“No, you’re not,” she agreed. “Not vastly. But I am
still grateful you didn’t overturn us both, simply for the sake of your pride.”

He kissed her then, to show that he was grateful, too, though for a great deal more than not toppling from a boat into the canal.

A great deal more, indeed.

The next morning Lizzie woke early, long before the sun had risen. She lay curled beside Hawke, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing while he slept and watching the sky gray through the bed curtains. It was the earliest she’d awakened since they’d married, and the first time that she’d heard the birds first begin to chirp and chatter in the garden with the coming dawn.

But the early hour gave her time and peace to think. She had spoken plainly to Hawke after yesterday’s visit from Lady Allred, Aunt Sophronia, and her own mother, but in truth she wasn’t without fault herself, not by half. While Hawke might have been irritated by his imperious mother, Lady Allred’s words had found their mark in Lizzie’s conscience. Granted, she and Hawke had only been married a fortnight, but still, in that time she’d done not one single thing that had been worthy of her new station.

Hawke had sworn that he’d broken with his former mistresses when he’d left Italy, and Lizzie believed him. But even as an unworldly bride, she’d slowly come to realize that he’d simply replaced his old mistresses with her, expecting her to be endlessly willing to dally with him whenever he wished it—or, to be sure, whenever she wished it as well. As pleasurable as it was to loll about
in her dressing gown and frolic away the day with Hawke (and he had made it so very pleasurable!), the time had likely come when she should be demonstrating at least a smidgeon more interest in the management of Hawkesworth Chase. Even her mother, as gentle and kind as could be, had made that clear when she’d noted that Lizzie still did not know her own footman’s name. Aunt Sophronia and Charlotte had worked hard at training her for her new responsibilities, and she’d been terribly ashamed by how obvious it was that she’d completely ignored them.

She sighed and rolled onto her back, resting her hands low over her belly. She wondered if that much-desired heir was already a tiny sprout within her. She wished Hawke hadn’t been quite so vulgar yesterday before the older ladies, likening the two of them to rabbits, but it was true. If she wasn’t with child, it was certainly not from lack of trying. Wylder women were in general rapid breeders; both her sister and her mother had proudly confided to her that they’d conceived during the first month of their marriages. She felt no different than she usually did, but then, she’d no notion of how different she was supposed to feel.