remembered her last job, helping in the kitchen of one of the great houses near her home. She’d been carrying strawberries from the garden for the cook, when an unnamed lord had spotted her in a secluded hallway. He’d blocked her way, and smiled, wishing her a good morning.
And she’d smiled back, and made to go around him.
And he’d asked her name.
She’d responded politely and continued her progress towards the kitchen.
He was upon her before she realised and her back was against the wall. He’d reached into the bowl of berries she was still holding in front of her and brought one to his lips, biting and letting the juice trickle on to his chin. And he’d taken another, and brought it very deliberately to her lips and bade her bite. She’d been hungry and unable to resist the temptation to have just one. And she’d eaten from his hand like a tamed animal. Then he’d thrust a hand down the front of her dress and seized her breast.
She stood there, frozen in shock as he felt the slight weight of it, then rolled the nipple between his fingers.
Her mind had screamed that she must run. But her traitorous legs would not move. And he’d leaned closer, nipping her earlobe and whispering that, Miranda, there were many easier ways to earn a shilling than fetching and carrying for the cook. And, Miranda, there could be pretty dresses and baubles for a pretty girl, a quiet girl, if she were to bring her bowl of berries and come with him now.
And, to her shame, she’d been tempted. The part of her that was weak and tired and frightened told her that he was right. It would be easier just to lie back and give up. But he’d begun to describe what he wanted in whispering gasps, and anger had broken through the fear in her mind. She’d dropped the bowl and run from the house. She’d saved her honour, but lost her position. And considered herself lucky that he hadn’t taken what he wanted without benefit of discussion.
Cici had warned her, if a man turned out to be a brute, it was better not to resist, but to lie still and let him finish.
Which brought her mind back to her new husband. The kiss in the church had been strange enough. It had been pleasant at first, but overwhelming and inescapable. She imagined being trapped beneath him tonight as he grunted and rutted like some stallion in a stable yard. She’d be still, let him take what he wanted and perhaps he’d lose interest and return to his own rooms. She must look on the bright side, such as it was. He kept himself cleaner than the servants kept his house. His face had been shaven smooth and his body smelled of cologne and not sweat. His breath was fresh enough. His teeth were good. The advantages of wealth, she thought. The improved circumstances that Cici said her father had wanted for her. It was inevitable that she would marry and have some man in her bed. At least a rich man would be clean and the bed would be large.
And the result would be the same, whether she’d married a beggar or a peer. A swollen belly, the pain of childbed and a baby. At least her new husband could afford to keep his children. She never need worry about food or a roof over her head or the clothing on her back. That was the gift that her father had wanted for her and she should be grateful that he had been sensible enough to look to her future.
She listened for sounds from the other room, and her nerves ratcheted still tighter. How long was he planning to wait? It was past midnight and still there was no sign.
Her stomach growled, and the hollow ache in it drove the acid up and into her throat. She should have choked down a meal. She should have partaken of that miserable wedding breakfast. Now she was starving as well as scared and could feel a faint pounding beginning behind her temple.
Perhaps she should ring for Polly to bring her some tea. As if she’d want to come at this hour—Miranda had too much sympathy there to draw the servants out of their warm beds to fulfil needs that should have been dealt with earlier in the evening.
Of course, there was no law to say that she couldn’t take care of things herself. Great houses were all alike. Bedrooms were up, and kitchens were down and there were servants’ stairs between. It was possible, at this advanced hour, that the duke had no plans to visit her. And if he did, she should hurry and be back before he arrived and no one would be the wiser. She left her door open a crack and tiptoed down the hall to the place where she was sure the servants’ stairs must lie.
The duke stared down in to his brandy glass. He should be upstairs by now, waiting on his new wife, not in the library, gathering Dutch courage.
He poured another glass and drank. This was not how the day was supposed to run. He’d had no desire to take a wife and certainly not to yoke himself to the odd duck that had washed up on the doorstep yesterday. Eventually, he would have had to make a decision, but he had been enjoying the relative quiet in the house without the presence of his mother.
He would get the estate back in order first. And something would have to be done about St John. An uneasy truce at least. They’d need to work through enough of the old problem so they would not be at each other’s throats. He had no real desire to throw his only living relative from the house for good, but it might be necessary if no solution could be found.
He’d never intended to bring a wife into the mess that existed now. But one had forced her way into it and now he had another problem to deal with. And he’d done a ham-handed job of it so far, railing at her in the hall for problems that weren’t of her doing, and goaded by St John’s sneers to that kiss after the wedding. He could tell by the thin set of her lips at breakfast that she was convinced she’d married a lout.
And now, instead of apologising and getting on with the business at hand, he was hiding in the library with a brandy bottle. As if an excess of spirits would do anything but inhibit his ability to perform the new duty added to an already long list.
At the least, it would leave him careless and he imagined the deflowering of a virgin required a certain amount of finesse.
If that truly was her state. He suspected not. To be rushed unescorted out of London raised doubts. He knew nothing of her family other than it had been wronged by his, which did not narrow the field much in choice of a wife. It was how he’d gained his last wife as well. He suspected, between his mother, his brother and himself, that there was quite a list of eligible females whose families had been wronged. But he could not take a harem to assuage the family honour.
It might be best, he thought, swirling the liquor in the snifter, if the consummation were postponed, at least until he could ascertain the reason that his mother had been so eager to have him wed to this particular woman. It would be the rational course of action to proceed with caution.
And what would be the fun of that?
Marcus smiled at the thought that had crept unbidden in to his head. Throw caution to the winds? He was a brother to St John after all. While it might be sensible to save the wedding night until he was sure he had any intention of staying married to the woman in question, it was in no way satisfying. If the woman came to his home hoping to be wed, surely she must be expecting his visit.
He set down his glass and walked slowly towards his room.
If she was honourable, and this was all some horrible mistake, she deserved the protection of his name, and should be willing to submit graciously to her new husband. She’d had ample opportunity to stop this farce of a marriage at the beginning, yet she’d said nothing. She now had no reason to cry nay at the inevitable climax of the day.
But if she was some trollop foisted on him by a combination of bad fortune and his mother’s need for redemption? Then he could enjoy his wife’s favours, knowing
