At the Duke’s Pleasure (3 page)

How magnificent he is
, she thought.
What a shame that he holds no more genuine regard for me than he does a stranger. But then again, that’s what we are, is it not? Strangers.

Glancing away, she stood, using the momentary distraction to reassert control over her emotions and her expression as well.

Striding forward, the duke stopped and made her an elegant bow. “Lady Claire.”

She sank into an answering curtsey. “Your Grace.”

He and her mother exchanged pleasantries before Mama launched into several overly effusive remarks about the weather and the graciousness of his call; comments that very nearly bordered on the ridiculous under the circumstances. Finally, her mother ceased speaking and glanced between them with knowing eyes. Making an excuse about needing to talk to the housekeeper, she left the room.

Quiet descended with the closing of the door.

“How have you been?” the duke began after a long moment. “You look quite well. If I may say, you are much grown since last we met. Taller, I believe?”

“Yes, I would imagine by two or three inches. Girls have a way of continuing to grow past the age of sixteen, whether they might wish to do so or not.”

A gleam shone for a moment in his eyes. “You are nearly my sister’s height. You must make a comparison of the matter when you have an opportunity to meet her. I hope you and Lady Mallory will find each other pleasant company when that day arrives.”

“Thank you. I am sure your sister is a most amiable young lady.”

A gentle smile curved his mouth. “She is indeed.”

He paused, giving her time to take a seat. She did so, sliding into one of the Sheridan chairs rather than returning to her previous place on the sofa. Once she was settled, he followed her lead, lowering his tall frame into a matching chair with an ease that belied his size.

A width of four feet stretched between them. A far wider gulf existed in the atmosphere.

Again, he began first. “As I expect you are aware, I had the occasion to speak with your father only a few minutes ago.”

Her fingers tightened in her lap and she gazed at a vase on the mantel—empty this time of year, since there were no flowers in the garden to fill it.

“He has given his consent for us to proceed with the wedding as soon as we wish. I thought you ought to be the one to set the date and choose the location. Would you like to be married here in your home parish, or at Braebourne perhaps? There is a fine chapel on the estate that I imagine you would approve.”

She swallowed and said nothing, knowing he expected her answer.

“Or would you rather the ceremony take place in London? St. George’s is a most popular choice. My brother Cade had his nuptials there nearly two summers ago.”

Again he waited.

Her pulse thudded with a flood of nerves. Finally, she turned her gaze to his. “Actually, Your Grace,” she said, forcing herself to speak in a strong, clear voice, “I am afraid that none of them will suit.”

One black brow arched upward. “You have another place in mind?”

“No. You see, it’s just that I’d really rather not.”

“Rather not?” he repeated in clear confusion. “Rather not what?”

“Marry. I do not wish to be wed.”

E
dward rarely found himself at a loss for words, but as he stared across at Lady Claire Marsden, with her peaches and cream complexion and her soft golden hair, his mind went absolutely blank for several long seconds.

What had she just said? Something about not wishing to marry? Surely
, he decided,
I must not have heard her correctly
.

“Your pardon, Lady Claire,” he ventured. “But would you repeat that please?”

Beneath his appraising gaze, she squared her delicate shoulders and lifted her small, attractively rounded chin, her translucent blue gaze very bright in her face. “I said that I do not wish to be m-married.”

So I did hear her right!

His eyebrows drew into a scowl. “Your father gave me to understand quite the opposite not half an hour ago. He informed me you had agreed to this union.”

Her honey-colored brows furrowed. “Papa has fixed opinions about a great many things and does not believe in the necessity of inquiring over other people’s wishes, particularly if they do not happen to coincide with his own.”

Edward took a long moment to consider her statement. “I see. I did not realize you had any objections, especially considering the lengthy duration of our betrothal.” He paused again, his eyes narrowing as a new thought occurred. “Is there someone else perhaps? A beau of whom your father does not approve?”

Her lips parted in obvious surprise. “No, Your Grace, there is no one else. We live a very quiet existence here at Marsden Manor. There is the occasional dinner or card party with our neighbors, but rarely do we go to the assemblies. Papa thinks it’s a waste of time and expense to attend. My year at the ladies academy in Bath was more than enough costly socializing. He said much the same about giving me a Season in London. An unnecessary expenditure for a girl whose future is already settled.”

So that was the reason she’d never come to London. Although he had to admit he hadn’t given it much consideration before. Until recently, he’d always thought of her as a child, too young for beaux and parties—or marriage. But she was one-and-twenty now and well past the age when most aristocratic young women had their presentation to Society. He ought to have questioned her situation sooner and wondered over her absence from Town.

“So your objection lies with me, then? You believe we would not suit?”

Her lovely eyes widened before she glanced away, the room growing so quiet of a sudden that he could hear wind tugging at one of the windowpanes.

“I believe, Your Grace,” she said, as her eyes lifted again to meet his own, “that we barely know one another. I have not the basis to judge whether or not we shall truly suit.”

Abruptly, he relaxed, not realizing until that moment how tense he’d been. “Well, that’s a situation which can be remedied easily enough. And we need not set a wedding date right away. Many couples wait several months before they exchange vows, and we may do the same. During the engagement, we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other better.” He paused again, studying her expression. “Unless you have taken a dislike to me.”

Color washed into her cheeks and she glanced away once more. “I do not dislike you, Your Grace,” she murmured in a low tone. “It is simply that I do not wish to…m-marry, as I told you before.”

“You mean not marry at all?” His eyebrows shot up. “Now that would be a crime against humanity. Besides, a young woman in your position
must
marry, you have to know that.”

“I know nothing of the kind. Can you not simply go to Papa and tell him you have changed your mind? That you do not wish to honor our betrothal after all?”

“No, I am afraid I cannot,” he said in a serious tone. “I have considered this fully and a marriage between us makes excellent sense. I have my duty to uphold, as well as my lineage, and I believe you will make an admirable duchess. My father thought so and yours does as well.” He leaned forward and reached for her hand, noting that her fingers were cold and stiff.

“You will not find me a difficult husband, Claire. I promise to make no untoward demands upon you and you shall always be treated with the utmost respect. I will want an heir or two, I admit, but not until you are ready. You may have as much time as you require to feel at ease in my company.”

Which
, he thought,
is a great deal more than most young women are given
. In the Ton, it was the rare couple who knew each other well before marriage, since unmarried men and women were permitted little opportunity to be alone together. They might meet a few times at a ball or party, share a walk or ride out in an open carriage, but their interactions were hardly the stuff of great intimacy. For many, that level of interaction came after the vows were said.

Then he recalled her missed Season and their utter lack of a normal courtship. Mayhap it would please her to have her presentation at court, to be a debutante, however briefly, even if the exercise was, in many regards, only for show.

“Why do I not speak with your father again and tell him that you must travel to London for the Season,” he said in a gentle tone. “That way, you may have your come-out, after all. Once the summer is over, we will be better acquainted and you may settle then on a wedding date.”

Slowly, she pulled her hand from his. “And that is your final decision? That we shall marry regardless of my wishes? Is honoring this betrothal so very important to you then?”

Is it?
he considered, remembering again his mother’s urging to abandon the old promise and simply walk away. And yet he found he didn’t want to. He needed a suitable duchess, and the idea of starting the search afresh left him unbearably weary. He’d seen the crop of eligible ladies, and none of them stirred the least hint of interest within him. And as he’d already reasoned on his journey here, Lady Claire had been bred for the role and would make an excellent helpmeet.

She might believe she didn’t want this marriage, but he was confident he could change her mind. Perhaps he didn’t have the same wild reputation as his brothers, but he well knew how to woo a woman. He didn’t believe it a boast to say that all Byron men were skilled in the art of seduction—a gift that seemed to run in the blood.

As he studied Claire now, he forced himself to see her through a man’s eyes—not as the infant he’d once held, but as a woman fully grown. What he saw pleased him, more than he might have imagined.

Her height, as he’d already noted, was slightly above the average, but that was only to the good for a tall man like himself. Her bone structure was delicate, with small hands and wrists. He speculated that her ankles and feet shared similar proportions and wished of a sudden that he could tug up her skirts a few inches to find out. Her figure was slender and pleasingly formed as well, with curves in all the choicest locations.

As for her face, she was lovely, with an almost ethereal kind of beauty. Her oval features were very English, very refined, with luminous blue eyes, a pert nose and lips that were shaped like a bow.

When the time came, making love to her would be no burden, but rather a delight. He knew he would enjoy teaching her that there was pleasure to be found, even in the midst of doing one’s duty.

“You are correct,” he stated. “My mind is quite firm in this regard. I feel it incumbent upon us both to honor the wishes of our families, no matter the admittedly feudal nature of our alliance. But as I said, we have time. After all, we’ve been affianced for the past twenty-one years. What’s another several months, give or take a few?”

Her bow of a mouth lengthened into a tight line. “Well then, I suppose you leave me little choice. We shall proceed as you suggest, Your Grace.”

He smiled. “In a spirit of accord, I would ask that you call me Edward, at least when we are in private. I hope you will grant me leave to call you Claire?”

“If you wish, Your Grace…
Edward
.”

I cannot do this
, Claire thought a few hours later, when she was once again alone in her bedchamber.
I cannot marry the duke
.

Yet circumstances were rapidly leading her down that path, and if she could not find a way to prevent the nuptials, she would find herself standing with him at the altar taking vows.

Wrapping her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, she paced across the room. At least he hadn’t accepted her mother’s invitation to remain for dinner, sparing Claire the necessity of acting the happy fiancée in front of everyone. Instead, he’d closeted himself with her father for another brief exchange, then taken his leave, promising to call upon her again soon.

Now here she was, wondering what was to be done.

She paced a few more steps across the hand-loomed, brown woolen carpet, then sank with a tremulous sigh onto her bed. Resting her elbows on her knees, she covered her face with her palms.

The duke’s countenance rose instantly before her mind’s eye, every crisp feature and well-defined plane, replaced afresh over the earlier memory of him that she’d carried within herself these past five years.

Edward
.

The man she was supposed to marry.

The man she loved and wished to God she did not.

For therein lay the problem. Edward Byron might want her for his wife, but he didn’t want
her
—Claire Marsden. He didn’t love her, and deep in her soul she knew he never would.

The remembered scent of honeysuckle teased her senses for the flicker of an instant, just as it always did when her thoughts turned back to that warm August night so many years ago…

Claire floated down the hallway that led to the gardens planted along the east side of the house. Or at least it seemed as though she were floating, since today was one of the most glorious days of her life.

And why should it not be?
she mused, when she was sixteen years old and in love with the most wonderful man in all of England. Likely all of Europe too. For that matter, the whole wide world!

She giggled to herself at the notion, feeling half drunk even though she’d been allowed to sip only a single glass of wine at dinner, and watered wine at that.

Edward Byron was a dream and not just because he happened to be an incredibly handsome, immensely wealthy duke. Rather it was because of who he was as a person. Strong, thoughtful and intelligent, he possessed an intensity that made one feel uniquely special. When he set her in his sights, it was as though she’d been singled out to bask in a radiant beam of sunshine.

Or perhaps the munificence of a god.

Not that he was a god; she wasn’t so foolish as to believe that. He was simply a man with the same faults and foibles as everyone else—although to date she had yet to glimpse a single flaw. Regardless, she was sure he must have some imperfection hidden away somewhere. Whatever the case, he was an amazing man with a charm and magnetism that had the power to send shivers racing over her skin even now. Her mouth grew dry at the thought, her step slowing as she paused to press a fist against her frantically beating heart.

Two days ago, when he’d first arrived at the house for her parents’ weekend country party, she’d been a little afraid to meet him. After all, she hadn’t seen him since she was a child, and even then he’d been an adult, being nearly a dozen years her senior. What if he thought her awkward? What if he decided she was plain? Or worse, a bore?

But the instant they’d met again, she’d been enchanted, his every word and gesture setting her completely at her ease. By that first evening, she’d been well and truly smitten. And continually amazed that the man to whom she’d been betrothed from infancy could turn out to be such a perfect match for her.

Of course he made no romantic overtures toward her, seeing that she was far too young yet for such declarations—at least not in front of her parents. But in two more years she would be a grown woman. In two more years she would be ready to take her place as his wife. Their fathers had agreed to the union, and so long as the duke still wished it, she was to be his bride! She could hardly wait, could scarcely catch her breath for the excitement and anticipation of being his to have and to hold forever.

Which was why she’d decided to follow him to the garden. Outside, where there would be an opportunity for them to be alone. Where the balmy darkness might tempt him to see her as a desirable young woman and maybe, if she was very lucky, coax him to steal a kiss.

A fresh rush of longing filled her, goose bumps rising on her bare forearms as she opened the door into the garden and padded through on slippered feet. Following the path most gentlemen took when they wanted to indulge in a cheroot, she hurried into the darkness. Her step slowed when she heard voices.

Immediately, she recognized the low, silvery tones of the duke, identifying the rumbling cadence of his words rather than their exact meaning. Then another person answered, a second voice that was higher and lighter—and distinctly female.

Claire drew to a halt, her movements soundless on the crushed shell path. She waited, hesitant about whether to withdraw. Then she heard her name.

“Pray do not tell me the rumors are true about you and that Marsden chit,” the woman said. “Why, the girl isn’t even out of the schoolroom. When Paula Syberton told me there is some understanding between you and that child, I was sure she must be having me on. Tell me I’m right so that I may give her a sound thrashing with my handkerchief when next we meet.”

Very softly Clybourne cleared his throat. “As it happens, Lady Syberton is correct, at least in so far as the existence of an understanding. It is of very long standing, however, and not of my design. Nothing between the young lady and myself is settled. She is, as you said, scarcely out of leading strings.”

Leading strings!
Claire thought, her fingers curling into fists at her sides.
He makes me sound the veriest child when I am nearly a woman full-grown!