If she told herself that enough times, she might come to believe it. She looked up at Vander again, and opened her mouth to say as much, but somehow everything had changed again.
When he had tossed her back onto Lancelot’s back, her skirt had caught around her knees, and now her legs—clad in pale pink silk stockings—were exposed right up to her thighs, and creamy flesh above that. Vander’s eyes were smoldering, as if he wanted not just to kiss her, but to do something truly scandalous. Heat surged up her middle as she pulled her skirts back down.
“Hello, hello!” A deep voice broke the moment as effectively as a rock might smash a window. “Who have we here? Well, if it isn’t the newlyweds, having a little tête-à-tête.”
“Hello, Chuffy,” Mia said, managing a smile.
The muscle was working in Vander’s jaw again. Mia felt a perverse stab of satisfaction.
“Good morning, my dear,” Chuffy asked. “Shall I continue to the village by myself, Nevvy?”
“No, no, I’ll be off,” Mia said hastily.
Vander’s eyes narrowed again. “I just realized . . . Where’s your groom?”
“I chose to ride alone,” Mia said. “Goodbye.” She would have liked to gallop down the path, but she knew better than to try. There was silence behind her as she and Lancelot plodded away, which gave her time to wonder whether her bottom looked absurdly round in her tight habit.
Vander was probably watching her go and wondering if she even had a waist.
She couldn’t turn to look. She mustn’t.
She had almost reached the curve in the pathway when she heard the rumble of Chuffy’s voice. “Gal has extraordinary hair. Took that from her father, I suppose.”
She rounded the bend and brought Lancelot to a halt, dying to know what Vander would say in return. Chuffy continued, “I’m never certain of my gossip, but isn’t she the one who was madly in love with you when you were only a lad? I couldn’t remember for sure.”
Mia froze. All she could hear was her own breath, choppy bursts of air; she missed Vander’s response entirely.
“You’re right about that, lad,” Chuffy said. “Right about that. You’re a duke, after all.”
“It wasn’t about the title.”
Oh good. At least Vander recognized that she hadn’t been—
“But yes, she used to be in love with me,” he finished.
“Not pretty enough for you?”
Mia’s heart thumped.
“She had a round face in those days, and I was fifteen,” Vander said flatly. “I wasn’t interested in young ladies of quality, any more than I cared for poetry.”
Her fists clenched. That self-righteous, bumptious ass. He had yanked her onto his horse, for goodness’ sake.
He had kissed her, round face and all, not the other way around.
Mia had heard enough. She loosed Lancelot’s reins and the horse ambled on, swishing his tail. She didn’t deserve this sort of treatment. She may not be the prettiest girl in the world, or even in the country, but no one except Vander had ever made her feel downright homely.
After the poetry incident, she had tried a thinning regimen, but all it did was whittle her waist, which made her breasts seem even larger. In short, this was as alluring as she was ever going to get.
Damn it, she was crying again, so hard this time that she began hiccupping.
Marriage was awful.
She hated it . . . nearly as much as she hated her husband.
Chapter Sixteen
From the offices of Brandy, Bucknell & Bendal, Publishers
September 10, 1800
Your Grace,
I write to offer the most hearty congratulations of myself and my partners on your recent nuptials. We are honored to have you on the roster of our authors.
I was also most happy to learn of your excellent progress on An Angel’s Form and a Devil’s Heart. If I might offer editing suggestions on the first one hundred pages, rather than wait for the full manuscript, I would be most happy to do so. I am certain I could find lodging in the village, where I would be readily available and better able to offer encouragement and advice, as well as editing the pages as they come from your pen.
In more happy news, sale of the gold tooled set of your earlier novels has surpassed our expectations. We have alerted the printer that your new manuscript is imminent, and we will once again issue both a board binding with blue paper and a leather label on the spine, and a leather-bound, gold tooled volume on the same day, pleasing all your readers.
With deep respect, and in hopes of seeing you soon,
I remain,
William Bucknell, Esq.
P.S. I include herewith not only Miss Julia Quiplet’s works, but a new novel written by Mrs. Lisa Klampas, which I believe you will enjoy.
Vander dressed for the evening meal feeling unsettled. He’d left Chuffy in the alehouse surrounded by a ring of his cronies.
When he had returned to his stables, he had found Mulberry buzzing with excitement—about his wife. Jafeer was calmer in Mia’s presence? Mia, who rode a horse that moved like an ancient turtle, stiff-legged and slow?
Moreover, he couldn’t get their kiss out of his head. Most of his life, Vander had been attracted to tall, slender women. But now he was struck with raging desire for a woman who nestled into his shoulder. A woman who wasn’t even tall enough to look him directly in the eye. Who could be plucked from her saddle and kissed until both of them were breathless.
When Mia was irritated, her eyes darkened to a wintery green color that he’d never seen on another woman.
Suddenly Vander realized his valet was offering a waistcoat.
“Sorry. Do you know how my new ward fared in the nursery this afternoon?”
His man grinned. “From everything I hear, he’s a character.”
“I would agree.”
“Mr. Gaunt is another one. He sat the household down and gave us all a good talking-to about how we’re to treat Master Charles.”
“Excellent,” Vander said with satisfaction. “Was there rejoicing below stairs at the departure of Nottle?”
“Certainly not.” But a momentary pause had told Vander exactly what he needed to know; he made a mental note to retire Nottle to a cottage on his Yorkshire estate.
He turned to shrug on his evening coat. “The duchess has summoned a modiste from London,” his valet reported. “Her lady’s maid is quite happy that Her Grace has decided to put aside her half-mourning.”
It seems his wife had truly mourned the death of her father. Vander didn’t like how much her tears had affected him. Mia’s soft mouth had quivered, and he’d wanted to kiss her until she trembled all over for a different reason. The moment he’d realized she was crying, he had wanted to take her into his arms and kiss her until she cheered up.
Absurd. He never felt that sort of thing, and he’d be damned if he let himself be disturbed by a wife, let alone a wife whom he hadn’t chosen for himself.
Not that he was complaining, he had to admit. Every time he saw Mia, his desire spiked higher. That was useful, insofar as they would have to come together enough times to create an heir and a spare.
Perhaps even a daughter. For a moment he imagined a little girl with Mia’s extraordinary hair and green eyes, and his heart skipped a beat.
Four nights . . .
He suppressed a bark of laughter.
It would take him more than four nights to get her out of his system.
A few minutes later he entered into the drawing room and was amused to find Mia in a high-necked, ruffled gown that resembled the garb of an elderly housekeeper. It didn’t matter. He took one look at her, and his cock stood to attention.
She was wearing her hair tumbling down her back with a bandeau holding it off her face. It suited her. With those big eyes, heart-shaped face, fly-away eyebrows . . . and hell, those lips . . .
Interestingly enough, Mia seemed to have no idea how beautiful she was. He was used to women who were polished and pruned, r
uthlessly displaying their best assets in the marketplace.
The mere act of watching Mia’s throat ripple as she swallowed her wine excited him. Gaunt offered him a glass of claret. He took the glass and strolled toward his wife, adjusting his coat in order to conceal the situation below. “Good evening, Duchess,” he said.
Mia did not meet his eyes. “Good evening, Duke,” she murmured. Her nose had a perfect shape. It wasn’t bulbous or too pointed, as many women’s noses were.
“I have a question about your father,” he said, deliberately bringing up a subject that would create some distance between them.
Sure enough, her brows furrowed. “I do not wish to discuss my father.”
“Why did he give your poem to my mother?”
Mia finally looked at him. Her gaze felt like a hot poker that sent blood straight from his head to his toes, most of it pooling halfway between, if he were honest.
“He thought the poem was funny.”
“I presume you didn’t give him a copy.”
“My father had idiosyncratic ideas about ownership. He was also irrepressibly curious. That is undoubtedly how he came into possession of the letter your father wrote.”
“Do other letters of that nature exist?” he asked. “Have you a safe crammed with people’s secrets?”
She shuddered almost imperceptibly. “No. The theft of the poem was partly my fault, because I titled it in such a way that you were identifiable. I should have known he would find it irresistible.”
“I would have minded less if you had titled the poem to Evander. I’ve always hated my middle name.”
The corner of her mouth curled slightly. “At the time, I found Septimus a far more romantic name than Evander.”
She turned away and walked to a settee. Despite himself, Vander’s eyes followed her bottom. She had the most luscious arse that he had ever seen. Round . . . perfect.
To go with her perfect nose.
He followed her and dropped into a chair opposite, taking another swallow of wine. “Does that mean you’d prefer Septimus to Vander?”
“No,” she said thoughtfully. “I think you were right to request that we not address each other in such familiar terms. Whether or not our marriage survives—” She saw he was about to speak, and raised a hand. “My point is that neither of us wishes the other to develop an unwise affection.”
Vander was suddenly quite convinced that he’d like his wife to develop just such an affection. “Do you think it’s possible?”
A ripple of pain went through her eyes. It instantly disappeared, disguised by a veneer of well-bred courtesy.
“I gather you cannot imagine the situation in which you would fall in love with me,” she said, chin high. “But what if I were to fall in love with you, Your Grace? Again? I think we can both agree that it would be better to avoid that unfortunate situation.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” he said, the words coming out in a husky caress.
“You did not hurt my feelings,” she answered readily. “I am well aware of the differences between us, Duke. You do me no harm by reminding me to keep them in mind.”
He frowned. Differences? But before he could ask her to elaborate, Chuffy toddled in. His uncle wasn’t three sheets to the wind, as the saying went: he was more like six sheets.
“Evening, love birds,” he said, turning on his heel and looking behind him, for all the world like a puppy looking for its tail. “Have you seen that new butler of ours? He was here just a moment ago.”
Vander reached over and pulled the cord. “His name is Gaunt, Chuffy.”
“I know that,” his uncle said. “You’d never know it by his stomach these days, but he used to be the boxing champion for this county, Nevvy, as you’d know if you weren’t all-fired up over stables, stables and nothing but stables.”
Mia was smiling, so presumably she already knew the origins of her butler’s crooked nose.
Damn it, one glance at her, and lust slashed through him again.
She was his wife. She was his.
She would love him.
Again.
Chapter Seventeen
MORE NOTES ON THE JILTING
~ Perhaps Frederic is inebriated and forgets to come to church?
“Frederic keenly felt the impropriety of his conduct. ‘Now I am myself again, no longer under the Dangerous Influence of Spirituous liquors . . . my affections suppressed by Demon Rum, I forgot the most precious gift that Life had given me.’” No. (Readers wouldn’t like it.)
- Perhaps he accidentally tips Flora over a waterfall. Puts her in Mortal Peril and permanently lames her. He jilts her from guilt. (They wouldn’t like that either.)
~ or he’s Jealous! A deceitful friend tells him that Flora is naught but a wanton deceiver. Yes, this works!
Very Shakespearean ~ wasn’t that Much Ado about Nothing? Or Measure for Measure?
Mia was beginning to feel that she would deserve a medal if she survived the meal. There wasn’t much conversation; Sir Chuffy was humming to himself, and Vander was eating a beef steak in the devotional way that men eat large slabs of meat.
She couldn’t stop worrying about the question of intimacy—and she didn’t mean first names. When she and Vander did consummate their marriage, which was bound to occur at some point, she would insist that all the lamps be extinguished first. No candles either. Sheets pulled up to their chins.
Was it permissible to insist that a man not touch his wife above the waist? She had a feeling it wasn’t, though she didn’t really know. Not having known her mother, she had only foggy ideas about the finer points of conjugal intimacy.
Enough! They had to talk about something.
“I met Jafeer today,” she said brightly.
Vander looked up from his plate. “So Mulberry informed me. Don’t go near that horse. He’s far too high-strung.”
“I gather Jafeer is a new addition to your stables?”
“Yes, he arrived a few days ago,” Vander said, taking another forkful of beef.
“You did tell me that you had a race upcoming, did you not? Will he take part?”
“I hadn’t thought to enter him because he has been unsettled. He won races in his native country as a yearling, and I’d like to have a sense of what he’s like on the track. But perhaps I shall . . . now I know that the way to his heart is a duchess with a pocketful of apples.”
Mia knew she was beaming, but it felt wonderful to triumph where Vander’s stable master had failed.
“Good for you, m’dear,” Chuffy said, leaning back with an expansive wave of his glass. He nearly tumbled but caught himself. “You’ve deduced the way to your husband’s heart.”
Vander’s eyes narrowed. He probably thought she was trying to trap him into unwanted emotion by befriending Jafeer—when she’d had nothing like that in mind. “There’s no need to go to such lengths, Duchess,” he remarked. “I’m bought and paid for.”
Mia froze, unable to speak. Chuffy, on the other hand, made a sharp gesture and barked, “Nevvy, I—”
His chair toppled backward with a crash, and a hard thump indicated that Chuffy’s head had hit the floor. Mia sprang to her feet with a squeak of distress, but Vander merely leaned forward far enough to peer down at his uncle and got up in a leisurely way.
Mia rushed around the table to where Chuffy was lying on the floor. To her relief, he was blinking up at the ceiling, looking surprised rather than injured.
“Here I am, on the damn floor again,” he observed.
Vander hoisted Chuffy to his feet and deposited him back in his chair. “Having second thoughts about our marriage?” he asked Mia in a mocking tone, as he walked back to the head of the table. “This household does not fit the mold of the beau monde.”
“I need a restorative,” Chuffy said, hauling on the cord to summon Gaunt.
“If I had dreams of a life in the beau monde,” Mia managed, “I gave them up long ago. If you would both please excuse me, I sha
ll retire for the night.” She stood up and nipped out the door as Gaunt entered, running up the stairs to the nursery.
The ducal nursery was three times larger than that in Carrington House. It was bright and airy, with a rocking chair with metal mounts and red velvet cushions. A sofa was positioned in front of the fireplace, which was fronted with an elaborate grate guard.
In the corner was a child-sized iron cot; next to it was a child-sized wash table and basin. Charlie was in bed, but when she tiptoed into the room, she could tell that he was awake. She sat down on his bed, leaning over to kiss his forehead. “Why aren’t you asleep, Barley Charlie?”
“I’m too excited,” he whispered. He sat up. “Uncle Vander is going to teach me how to ride, Aunt Mia! He’s going to teach me to ride a horse. And he showed me how to go downstairs all by myself.”
“What?”
Charlie grabbed her hand and put it against the inside of his thin knee. “Do you feel this?”
He pushed against her hand, and she nodded.
“That means I can ride a horse!” he said triumphantly.
Mia’s heart sank. “Honey, riders use these things called stirrups—”
“A true rider needn’t use them,” Charlie said fiercely. “You can ride a horse with your knees. The duke says that is the best way to ride. You don’t need feet; you only need strong legs.”
Mia opened her mouth and shut it again. She was hardly someone who knew the finer points of horsemanship. “I suppose you could ride Lancelot.”
Charlie shook his head. “I shall ride proper horses, starting with a pony named Ginger, and after her, the biggest horses in the duke’s stables. I shall ride them all.”
“Oh, no,” Mia moaned. She knew that look. She’d seen it on her own face, when she’d realized that if she wrote novels and published them under an alias, she could keep writing about love without risking humiliation.