The Double Wager (9 page)

“A mere schoolroom chit, Eversleigh!” she retorted. “You will be tired of her in a week. I know you better than you know yourself, it seems.”

“Quite likely, my dear,” he agreed readily, “but an aging man must be allowed his dreams.”

“Aging!” she said scornfully.

“Yes. It seems that my heir has hopes that the, er, exertions of the marriage bed might help me to my grave prematurely. In feet, when his temper cools, I believe he might conclude that this is the best thing that has happened to him in some time.”

“Don’t be so absurd, Marius,” Suzanne retorted. “It seems that you have been merely toying with my affections. Am I no more than a light-skirts to you?”

Eversleigh surveyed her haughtily through his quizzing glass. “Suzanne, could it be that you are jealous?” he asked. “Had you expected an offer?”

She blushed and turned away in annoyance.

“No, no, you would not enjoy the restrictions of marriage, my dear,” he continued, “especially to me. I should demand fidelity, you see. I believe the late Mr. Broughton was more liberal?”

“Marius, how positively medieval you are sometimes,” she fumed, turning back to face him across the room. “What possible difference can it make, provided the proprieties are maintained? Fidelity went out of fashion a long age ago. You surely have no intention of remaining faithful to that pathetic little thing you are going to marry, have you? It would be a resolution impossible for you to keep.” She laughed scornfully.

Eversleigh s lips thinned. “Then you must be grateful that I have not put you in danger of becoming a neglected wife,” he remarked coldly.

“And do not think that you can come here and comfort yourself in my bed whenever your wife bores you,” Suzanne continued.

Eversleigh bowed. “You make yourself abundantly clear, ma’am,” he said.

“Oh, Marius,” she cried suddenly, tears filling her eyes. She rushed across the room and threw her arms around his neck. “Indeed you are making a mistake. You are a very demanding man and I know how to please you. And you satisfy me. How can I find another to match you? What can she offer that I cannot?”

Eversleigh looked down at her impassioned face through half-closed lids. He did not accept the invitation of her pouted lips. “Amusement,” he replied. “You see, she amuses me, Suzanne.”

She stared at him blankly and then laughed uncertainly. “She amuses you?” she repeated. “And that is reason for marriage?”

“An excellent one,” he agreed. “I believe I shall not know a moment’s dullness with Henry.”

“Henry!” she repeated, revolted.

* * *

Later that same evening, Suzanne Broughton and Oliver Cranshawe met at a card party. They gravitated toward each other at suppertime.

“So, Suzanne,” Cranshawe said, not bothering to charm her with his practiced smile, “my cousin has succeeded in thumbing his nose at both of us, it seems.”

Suzanne looked haughtily back at him. “You, perhaps,” she agreed, “but how me, pray?”

“Oh, come, Suzanne,” he said, one corner of his mouth curling into a parody of a smile, “I am perfectly well aware that you were hoping to be the Duchess of Eversleigh. And he did appear to be leading you on, did he not?”

“I wish him well,” she said with a brittle laugh. “His betrothal affects me not at all.”

“But, if we could get revenge, my dear, you would not be displeased?” he asked, watching her carefully.

“Revenge?”

“I think it is probably too late to prevent the marriage,” Cranshawe admitted. “He would not be persuaded to call it off, and she, little minx, must be over the moon at having ensnared such a catch. But perhaps, Suzanne, we could ensure that it is not a prosperous marriage?” His voice had become soft and insinuating.

“How so?” she asked, trying to keep her piqued interest out of her eyes and voice.

“She looks a perfect ninny of a chit, this, er, Henry of his,” Cranshawe said. “Should I get to know her and try what my charm can accomplish?”

Suzanne looked measuringly at him and then allowed herself to smile. “You are a perfect devil, are you not, Oliver?” she said amiably. “But keep in mind that Marius as an enraged husband might be a trifle dangerous. There is no dueling weapon at which he is not adept.”

“It might be worth the risk, though, ” he said, the sneer curling his lip again. “Do you not agree, Suzanne?”

“Why do you tell me this, Oliver?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I thought you might like to know that all is not lost,” he said. “And if you could contrive to continue your liaison with Marius, we might make mischief out of it.”

She smiled briefly and rose to move away to join a different group. “It would be a pleasure,” she said with double meaning.

* * *

And so the wedding took place, three weeks after the betrothal announcement, in St. George’s, Hanover Square. Three hundred hastily invited guests attended and feasted at a large and lavish reception.

Finally, the Duke and Duchess of Eversleigh were alone in his town house, the pair of wagers won. They were to spend the wedding night in London and set out for a two-week wedding trip to Paris the next day.

CHAPTER 5

H
enry was alone in her bedchamber. Until now Betty, the new maid allotted to her in her new home, had been in the room, helping her to undress and bathe, assisting her into a new white silk nightdress, and brushing her curls until they were dry and bouncy. Henry had been too busy talking to Betty and finding out about her family and her young man (his Grace s most junior footman) to really examine her new living quarters. Now she looked around her at the high ceiling, the tapestried walls with their delicate blue floral print, the pale-blue carpet underfoot, the royal-blue velvet hangings at the window and draped around the high four-poster bed, and the magnificent heavy furnishings.

She felt as if she were being royally treated, though she could still not believe that she was now a duchess. She certainly did not feel any different. All the events of the previous three weeks were a blur in her mind. They had been filled with a whirl of visits, shopping expeditions, and fittings. Every day she told herself that the next day she would end the betrothal. She had never really believed that she would allow the ceremony to go forward. But each day she had postponed the embarrassing announcement. Sometimes it was because the twins or Miss Manford or the pets were being poorly treated again; more often, it was because she became paralyzed with a kind of terror when in Eversleigh’s presence.

She had seen him almost every day during those weeks. She had gone driving with him, or he had escorted her to the theater, or he had been a dinner guest. But she felt no closer to knowing him. He held himself aloof and dignified. He never laughed or smiled. There was only that occasional gleam in his
eyes
that might have been a sign of humor, or that might have signaled contempt. His conversation was intelligent and pleasant, but he never revealed anything of himself. If any talk became too personal, he would turn the topic expertly with a comment that might or might not be a joke. It was so hard to tell.

Henry sighed as she stared at a Chinese screen spread out before the unlit fireplace in her bedchamber. And now Eversleigh was her husband. What would it be like to be his wife? Would she find it impossible ever to be free again? She had an uncomfortable feeling that if he set himself against the activities that she enjoyed—like riding, for instance—she would not be able to win a fight against him. Well, today at least was over, she reflected cheerfully, and tomorrow they would be on their way to the Continent.

The door of the dressing room that adjoined her bedchamber and the duke’s opened after a light tap, and Eversleigh entered the room.

Henry’s eyes opened wide with surprise and apprehension. “Good evening, your Grace,” she said formally. “What do you want?” Her heart was beating uncomfortably fast as she noticed that he was wearing a blue satin dressing gown.

He stopped inside the door and folded his arms across his chest. “I am lost for an answer, Henry,” he said calmly after a moment. “It
is
our wedding night, you know.”

Henry stood her ground. “But what do you want?” she asked.

That gleam was in his eyes again, she noticed. “The answer is really very simple now that I have had time to think of it,” he said. “You, my love.”

Henry did not know what to answer; so she just stood and waited. Eversleigh let his arms fall to his sides and walked toward her until he stood only inches away. “You could not possibly be shy, could you, Henry?” he asked quietly. “Come, there is no need. You must trust me.”

He slid his hands very gently along the sides of her breasts and under her arms and drew her against him. Henry looked up into his face in wide-eyed alarm. His lips came down softly on hers. Henry stood rigid. Other people had kissed her on the lips: her father, the twins, several people on this very day after the wedding, and always it had lasted a mere second. It was the sort of ordeal that had to be endured in this world. But this kiss did not end after a second. After several seconds, in fact, she felt one hand slide down her body to hold her behind the hips and bring her full against the length of her husband, while the other hand moved up into her hair and cupped the back of her head. His head tilted to one side, and his mouth opened over hers. She felt his tongue slowly trace the line of her lips from one comer of her mouth to the other.

Henry panicked. She pushed wildly against his chest and darted across the room until the bed was between them. She clung to a bedpost and glared indignantly at him.

“Don’t!” she said. “What are you trying to do?”

Eversleigh’s eyes had opened wide for one unguarded moment. By now they were hooded again. He crossed his arms once more. “You are playing havoc with my selfesteem, Henry,” he said with a sigh. “I was trying to make love to my wife.”

“I don’t like doing that,” she said decisively. “Please go away!”

He sighed again and seated himself on the edge of the bed. “Henry,” he asked, “has anyone—any woman— explained to you what marriage is all about?”

“There is nothing to know,” she said. “I have taken your name and I have promised to honor and obey you. Marian wanted to talk to me this morning, but I told her she really need not bother. She had to go away in the end.”

“Your mother died when you were quite young, did she not, my love?” he asked.

“Yes. I was seven when the twins were born.” 

“And you have lived at Roedean ever since?”

“Until a few weeks ago, yes.”

“So really you know nothing of marriage, do you?”

Henry looked doubtful. “I know you will want heirs, your Grace,” she said. “And I shall be quite willing to perform that duty.”

“Shall you?” He watched her for a long moment. “Do you know how, er, heirs are born, Henry?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied eagerly. “I watched Majorca have a foal once. She was one of Papa’s horses. I was not supposed to be there, but Giles and I had given Miss Manford the slip. The groom told us that human babies are born the same way. They come out ...” She flushed and stopped as she made eye contact with her husband. “Well, you know,” she finished lamely.

“Yes, I know, my love,” he said softly. “But do you know how the heir—or the foal—is created, Henry?”

She flushed a deeper red. She did not know, though the question had bothered her for several years. She found it such a frightening question, in fact, that she had always resolutely blocked it from her consciousness.

“I thought not,” he said when she did not answer. He got to his feet and walked around the bed toward her. She shrank against the bedpost. “No, don’t be afraid, Henry,” he said. “I am not about to start kissing you again, since you seem to find the exercise so unpleasant. But you must learn, my love, that there is a great deal more to marriage and to producing heirs than just kissing.”

He took her chin in his hand and lifted it firmly until she looked wide-eyed at him. “We shall be in Paris and London until the end of July,” he said. “Mingle with society, my love, and keep your eyes and ears open. At the end of that time we shall go down to Kent. My principal estate and favorite home is there. And there you will become my wife, Henry.” His blue eyes lingered on her mouth and he pressed his thumb lightly along her lips. “The strain of being a frustrated husband might ruin my constitution between now and then,” he added dryly. “You will never know what a heroic feat I have performed tonight, Henry.”

He turned and walked unhurriedly back to the dressingroom door.

“Good night, my love,” he said.

“Good night, your Grace.”

He turned. “Henry, are you going to be your-Graceing me for the next fifty years?” he asked in a pained voice. 

“No, your Grace.”

“My name is Marius,” he said.

“Yes, your Grace.”

* * *

The next two weeks were surprisingly happy ones for Henry. The Channel crossing bothered her not at all, although the sea was decidedly choppy on the way across. While other ladies retired to their cabins armed with vinaigrettes, handkerchiefs, basins, and maids, Henry stayed on deck with her husband and watched eagerly for her first glimpse of the French coast. When she took off her bonnet and shook her curls into the wind, Eversleigh looked as if he might say something at first, but he merely closed his lips and resumed his study of the white-capped breakers. Henry noticed the gleam in his eyes before he did so. (At the end of the two weeks, she had decided that it was definitely a sign that he was amused. He never showed any other sign.) But when she twined the ribbons around her hand and twirled the bonnet absently while her hands were extended across the guardrail over the water, he did intervene.

“Henry, my love,” he said reproachfully, “it is a remarkably handsome bonnet and I should hate to see it end up in the water. But the worst of it is, you see, that if it did fall overboard, I might feel compelled to be heroic and dive in after it. And I should hate that even more, I assure you.”

Henry giggled. “You are absurd sometimes, your Grace,” she said, pulling her hand back in over the rail.