When the Duchess Said Yes (24 page)

He smiled down at her, curled on the bed beside him. He could look at her all the day long, she was that achingly lovely. She lay with her hair tossed back on the pillow, tucked on her side and still fast asleep. He wasn’t surprised; by his reckoning, she’d spent at least four times in the course of the night. That also likely accounted for the blissful half smile on her face as she slept. He only hoped she was dreaming of him.

He slid from the bed, taking care not to disturb her, and glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was nearly ten, early for him to rise if this had been an ordinary morning. He opened the curtains and then the diamond-paned window, letting the fresh air and sunshine stream in. He gave no thought that he was standing before the open window without a stitch on his body. He did this every day, too, one of his long-standing bachelor habits, and besides, the garden and everything else outside the window belonged to him. Who would stop him?

He stretched and returned to the bed, smiling down at Lizzie. She’d rolled away from the sun, burying her face beneath the pillow.

He kissed her shoulder, nuzzling that pleasing hollow between her throat and her collarbone. All he received in return was a noncommittal grunt.

“Good morning, dearest,” he said softly. “You may waken or not, but I’m giving you fair warning that our breakfast, and Giacomo, will soon appear.”

She rolled over on her back, squinting at the sun, and at him.

“Look at you, Hawke,” she said, her voice thick with sleep. “You’re naked as Adam in the garden.”

“So are you,” he said, drawing the sheet over her. “Or rather, as Eve. And I’d rather not share the view with my manservant.”

As if on cue, the bedchamber door flew open, and Giacomo appeared, bearing an enormous silver tray with a sizable coffeepot and a plate of sweet buns. Behind him came Lizzie’s new lady’s maid, Margaret. Giacomo was well accustomed to seeing his master naked, but Margaret was another story, and Hawke grabbed a corner of the sheet from the bed and pulled it around his waist. Lizzie yelped and pulled the rest of her sheet up to her chin.

“Good day to you, Giacomo,” Hawke said heartily, as if heartiness could compensate for nakedness. “And Margaret, isn’t it?”

“Aye, Your Grace,” said the maid, curtseying. She appeared to be the servant version of the harpies, older and stern-faced, though at present that stern face was as red as a beet.

“Good day, Margaret,” Lizzie said from behind him, obviously trying hard to sound like a duchess and not like some bold little hussy who’d spent the night rogering him. “Have you ordered my things in my rooms?”

“I have, Your Grace,” Margaret said. “I trust my arrangements will be to your satisfaction, ma’am. I have taken the liberty of bringing your dressing gown. I have also arranged for a bathing tub to be brought to your dressing room, ma’am, and whenever it pleases you I will have hot water brought up from the kitchens.”

“A hot bath!” Lizzie exclaimed, clearly delighted by the prospect of such luxury. “May I go, Hawke, just for a bit? Please?”

“You needn’t ask my leave, Lizzie,” he said, smiling. He’d regret parting from her for even a moment, but he
could understand that she might wish to wash after last night. “You have the freedom of this house. You can do whatever you please.”

“But I’m your wife and your duchess,” she said, “and if you wish me to remain, I will.”

She was smiling, so he guessed she was teasing, but he wasn’t entirely certain. It startled him, hearing her refer to herself like that. He didn’t yet think of her as his wife, or rather, he wasn’t thinking of himself as
having
a wife. She was simply Lizzie, now his Lizzie.

“Likely Giacomo wishes to make me presentable, too,” he said, rubbing his hand over his bristling jaw. “Go—wash and dress. I only ask that you don’t dress too thoroughly, mind?”

She laughed, and kissed first his cheek, then his lips. “I’ll mind,” she promised. “So long as you do the same.”

Margaret deftly held up the dressing gown so that Lizzie made the transition from the bed without displaying too much of herself. Still, Hawke had a last, tantalizing glimpse, enough to make certain he wouldn’t linger over his coffee. She still wore her stockings, the heels splattered lightly with mud, but she’d lost one of the garters during the night. At the doorway, she paused, slipped her dressing gown down to one side, and blew him a kiss over her bare shoulder, which he returned with a wink for good measure. He was smiling still as he took his coffee from Giacomo, and wondered idly how many such details Margaret and Giacomo would share about Lizzie with the other servants belowstairs.

No, not Lizzie: the new mistress of the house, Her Grace the fourth Duchess of Hawkesworth.

His wife.

“This is your bedchamber, ma’am,” Margaret said, opening the door and stepping aside for Lizzie to enter
first. “Your dressing room is to the right, and beyond that is your private parlor.”

Lizzie caught her breath, her eyes wide. This bedchamber was at least double the size of Hawke’s, and where his had been dark in the style of the last century, hers was bright and airy and modern, with cheery pale yellow walls and white plaster moldings. The furnishing were white and gold, with silver silk brocade for the chairs and the bed hangings. The bed itself was magnificent, with gilded carved posts like twisting vines and an oversized canopy with a swagged cornice, crowned on the corners with clusters of white ostrich plumes. Blue-and-white Chinese vases held flowers from the garden, and their fragrance sweetly filled the room.

The only part of the room that was truly hers was the little painting that Hawke had given her, now proudly set on the mantelpiece.

“How beautiful!” Lizzie exclaimed, awed that such a room now belonged to her. “It’s not at all like the rest of the house, at least the parts I’ve seen.”

“It’s to the dowager duchess’s taste, ma’am,” Margaret said. “That’s Lady Allred, His Grace’s mother. If you please, ma’am, if you’ll sit here, I can begin to brush out your hair while the water’s brought up.”

Already a parade of sturdy-armed footmen had begun arriving, each carrying a pair of tin pails of steaming water to Lizzie’s dressing room and the waiting tub.

Obediently Lizzie sat on the bench before the looking glass, wincing as Margaret began to draw the brush briskly through the snarled and matted tangles of her hair.

She knew perfectly well who the daunting Lady Allred was. She was grateful to have Margaret here as a friendly face, and to offer such helpful information about her new household, too. Charlotte, who’d chosen Margaret for Lizzie from her own staff, had been very definite
about making sure Lizzie had an ally in her lady’s maid. She’d also insisted that Lizzie’s maid be an older, experienced lady, and plain enough not to catch Hawke’s eye. Lizzie had laughed at that, but Charlotte, not trusting Hawke, had been adamant, and there was little doubt that Margaret’s severe features and angular form would never tempt Hawke.

“Your Grace will be changing these quarters to suit your own taste now,” Margaret continued. “His Grace will likely expect you to.”

“Not at first, I won’t,” Lizzie said, trying to look about without moving her head and suffering more hair pulling. “It’s beautiful as it is. But why is the duchess’s bedchamber so much larger that Hawke’s—that is, His Grace’s?”

“That’s because His Grace chooses to keep his old rooms, ma’am, from when he was a boy,” Margaret said promptly. “He’s never shifted to the duke’s rooms, no matter that his father died ten years ago.”

That piqued Lizzie’s curiosity. Most gentlemen who’d inherited a dukedom would be eager to claim every right and scrap of power that came with it.

But then, as she was learning, Hawke wasn’t exactly an ordinary gentleman, either.

“I wonder why he hasn’t,” she mused. “It’s not that the other bedchamber is ordinary, but one would think he’d wish the grander one.”

“How should I know His Grace’s most privy thoughts, ma’am?” Margaret said. “Some say he cares more for that foreign house of his than for any that are on good English soil, ma’am, and others whisper that he wants no part of his father, not even to sleep in his bed. But better you should ask such a question of His Grace yourself, if you wish more than servants’ tattle. Pray excuse me, ma’am, while I go make certain those rascals have prepared your bath proper.”

Left alone to her thoughts, Lizzie looked at the new ruby and diamond ring on her finger, turning her hand back and forth to make the stones twinkle in the sunlight. As costly a bauble as the ring might be, its true value should lie in the union it symbolized. After last night, she’d little doubt that Hawke loved her as much as she did him, and she smiled to herself, remembering all the wicked, wonderful things he had taught her.

Yet as splendid as last night had been, Lizzie caught herself also remembering her mother’s words to her, her fears that she and Hawke were too full of passion for their marriage to last. They troubled Lizzie, those words. How could what she’d felt with Hawke die away? That
was
love, wasn’t it? How could anything that brilliant and full of life—just like the ruby on her finger—not last?

“If you please, ma’am, the bath is of a pleasing warmth,” Margaret said, and dutifully Lizzie followed her into the dressing room. A large wooden tub, lined with linen cloth, sat in the center of the room. Crushed lavender blossoms had been stirred into the water, making the steam as fragrant as the water. This was indeed luxury; Lizzie could count on one hand the times she’d had a bath like this, and never to herself, but shared with her sisters. With a contented sigh, she lowered herself into the water, drawing her knees high so the water came clear to her chin.

“I’ll wager that’s a comfort, isn’t it, ma’am?” Margaret said, smiling at Lizzie’s obvious pleasure as she began to wash her hair. “Nothing soothes away soreness like warm water, and that’s the truth.”

Lizzie closed her eyes, relishing the warmth. She hadn’t realized she was sore until Margaret had mentioned it, but then Hawke had discovered places in her body that she hadn’t known existed. If she wasn’t careful now, she’d relax so thoroughly she’d fall asleep.

“Here, ma’am, your chocolate,” Margaret said, handing Lizzie a tiny porcelain cup. Lizzie breathed deeply: chocolate and cream and cinnamon, exactly as she liked it made.

“Ah, Margaret,” she said, sinking back to her chin in the water. “How you pamper me!”

“A new bride deserves to be pampered, ma’am,” she said, drying her hands on her apron. “Those were His Grace’s orders as well, that you be given whatever pleases you.”

Lizzie smiled as she sipped the chocolate, thinking how vastly fortunate she was to have such a thoughtful, generous, kind husband in Hawke, and how sadly Mama had misjudged him.

“Which gown do you wish me to prepare, ma’am?” Margaret said, opening one of several wardrobes in the dressing room. “If you are beginning your calls today, ma’am, might I suggest the pink striped silk? Or perhaps, ma’am, you’d rather the red riding habit with the black feathered hat? That is suitable for calls in town, ma’am, even if you travel by carriage.”

Lizzie flushed. She knew that, as the new Duchess of Hawkesworth, she was expected to call upon every other duchess residing in town, and a large number of other well-placed peeresses as well. It was part of her responsibility as a noble bride, a way of introducing herself to society, and society would expect her to do it. Charlotte had assiduously finished all her wedding calls within the first fortnight of her marriage, and March had even dutifully accompanied her on most of them.

But Lizzie wasn’t her sister, and Hawke most definitely was not March.

“Thank you, Margaret,” she said. “But I do not believe His Grace has any plans for us to begin making calls just yet.”

Margaret’s carefully impassive face was more expressive than a torrent of disapproving words.

“Very well, ma’am,” she said, each word crisp. “What shall I lay out for you instead?”

“Nothing that cannot be removed in an instant, Margaret,” Hawke said, strolling into the dressing room. “I do not wish Her Grace to be burdened in any way sartorial today.”

He was certainly setting an unencumbered example. He wore a long striped silk banyan, floating open and loose over his bare chest, red leather Turkish slippers, and a pair of dark, loose trousers. He looked as dazzling and exotic as any pasha. He came to Lizzie in the tub, bending over to kiss her, his freshly shaven jaw smelling faintly of soap.

“Good morning again, my dearest naiad,” he said. “I trust you are refreshed and restored.”

“Good morning to you again, too,” she said softly. Even after last night, she felt oddly shy to be sitting before him in the bath like this, her breasts bobbing in the lavender-scented water while he watched with obvious approval. It was all so
intimate
, which, with Hawke, was going to be how her life would now be. “Margaret was just asking me how to dress for the morning. Have we plans?”

“Only that I intend to lavish you with love and amusements,” he said. Without looking away from her, he motioned to Margaret, who immediately brought him both a chair so that he could sit beside the tub and his own cup of chocolate, the dainty porcelain looking too small in his hands. “What other plans must I have?”

Lizzie considered mentioning the wedding calls, simply to measure Hawke’s thoughts on them, but he’d already moved on to his own plans for the day.

“I believe we’ll view pictures today,” he said, frowning
at the cocoa. “Only a few, I promise. I don’t want to overwhelm you with my tastes.”

“Where?” she said eagerly. “To the public gallery at the Foundling Hospital?”

“Nothing so grand, I fear,” he said ruefully. “You’ll have to make do with the makeshift gallery I’ve arranged in the ballroom.”

“So they are your paintings?” she asked, rising from the tub as Margaret surrounded her in an oversized linen cloth and began to pat her dry.

“Like Venus from the waves,” he murmured, his cocoa forgotten and his gaze rapt on her body.

She blushed at his attention, though she enjoyed it, too. “Faith, first I’m a naiad, and now Venus on the waves. What will you have me be next, Hawke? A dolphin?”