Duke in Darkness: Wickedly Wed, Book 1 Page 3

  Her spine stiffened, and she stood, properly ignoring his hand and instead placing her palm as lightly on his sleeve as possible. Yet as they walked to the balcony, his right hand reached around and clamped hers onto his left forearm, and shock jolted through her. Even through her glove and his jacket she could feel the heat, and indeed his power and strength. To onlookers it might look like a mild gesture of affection, but somehow, she knew it wasn’t. This man, this primitive, battle-hardened soldier-turned-duke, had staked a claim.

  She would belong to him, body and soul. He would demand it.

  Every nerve jangled a warning, and her stomach twisted into knots of fear and something else she couldn’t quite define. But she couldn’t flee; the two of them were now alone on the small balcony. Which had been a foolish idea anyway, the weak afternoon sunshine and brisk air would shortly turn her as blue as her sash.

  “So. Tell me of your interests, Lady Lilian.”

  Startled by the unexpectedly respectable question, Lilian blinked. “I like to embroider. Visit friends. Attend musicales to hear other people sing because I cannot. And…”

  “Yes?”

  She glanced furtively inside, to ensure her grandmother wouldn’t overhear this small rebellion of truth. “I like gardens. Soils. Plants and so forth. I am interested to know why some things grow well in places and some don’t.”

  “A curious lady, then,” her new fiancé mused, yet rather than judgmental, he sounded almost pleased. How odd. “Also freezing right now.”

  “Ah…no. I am quite well.”

  “Liar,” Exton replied, as he divested himself of his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. It sat ridiculously big on her but the warmth was heavenly, and the earthy fragrance of some musky and surprisingly appealing cologne drifted to her nose. Her previous fiancé had always worn a floral scent.

  “Thank you,” she said hesitantly. “But now you’ll be cold. It is chillier than I imagined out here.”

  The duke shrugged and leaned against the balustrade. “I’m fine.”

  “I must say, you do appear a hardy soul, Your Grace.”

  His lips twitched again, showing a hint of straight, white teeth. “Suppose I am.”

  Lilian braced both hands on the stone and peered over into Hanover Square, abruptly wanting to deepen the discussion beyond the temperature, to learn more about the man she would soon be marrying. “From being a soldier, I expect. I…I read about you. In the London Gazette. Well, I went back and looked into Father’s collection. He never throws anything away that talks about the Peninsular War, the newspapers are stacked like pillars in one corner of his library. But there were countless articles. How you rose through the ranks. How many times you were decorated for bravery. The lives you saved because of your superior tactics. The British Army, and Wellington, were so very lucky to have you all the way to Bayonne…” she finished, glancing sideways with an approving smile.

  Except her fiancé didn’t look at all impressed at her knowledge. In fact, that hint of a smile had gone, replaced by what looked horribly like a flash of agony followed by dark grimness. What had she done wrong? Men liked to be flattered, didn’t they? To be applauded on past great feats?

  “I beg your pardon,” she said stiffly. “How forward of me.”

  Exton’s expression smoothed into blankness. “Not forward,” he said, “just not…a topic for discussion.”

  Lilian winced at her misstep. With his scar and his limp, something dreadful had obviously happened to him in France. Of course he wouldn’t want to talk about it!

  “I really do apologize. I spoke without thinking,” she whispered, and unable to halt her instinct to comfort by touch, reached over and gently squeezed his hand. Yet faster than she dreamed possible, Exton took her hand in his, peeled off her glove, and pressed his lips to her knuckles.

  All the air whooshed from her lungs. His lips were hard and so hot they seemed to brand her skin. Now her gown didn’t feel modestly loose but a full size too small, and her heart had begun to pound. What was happening? Her previous fiancé had never provoked this reaction!

  “Your Grace. Please, it’s not proper,” she said shakily, the lie burning her cheeks. As her fiancé, with the contracts inside on Father’s desk ready to be signed and sealed, he could do a lot more besides. “Not until after the wedding.”

  His eyes glittered like jet fire, and her breathing quickened further. The hungry wolf had returned, and wanted freedom from the bonds of propriety. But after a long, heated moment in which she fought down that shamefully inquisitive part of herself urging an experiment—offer her other hand to see if a kiss there might feel the same—Exton merely inclined his head.

  “Very well, Lady Lilian. Until the wedding.”

  Chapter 2

  Silence. Bloody damned silence. Even the fire warming his bedchamber refused to provide sparks and crackles and shifting wood.

  Reaching out an unsteady hand, Gabriel poured himself another tumbler’s worth of brandy. Of all the nights to be still and menacing, of course it had to be the one before his wedding to a near-stranger. Noise of any kind would be welcome, preferably a violent storm with howling winds and rain pounding a steady beat on the arched windows. Noise was his friend, offering a distraction from the memories that always lurked on the periphery of his mind, just waiting to push him over the edge into madness.

  Silence reminded him of captivity.

  When the French had held him, it had been in a tiny cellar about ten feet wide and less than six feet high, so he’d been unable to stand. There had been nothing in it. No straw to sleep on, no blanket, not a hole that allowed water to trickle in, or even rats. No food or drink had been brought to his prison, so there were no dishes or utensils. He’d been stripped of his boots and regimentals, allowed only a pair of ill-fitting breeches and a coarse linen shirt, so he couldn’t even clomp his heels or clink a belt or twist braid through his fingers. Yelling, or banging his fist on the wall had been a waste of time and energy. There were no other prisoners nearby, and his guards were stationed above stairs, two layers of thick stone and several padlocks away. Far worse, there had been no light. No windows. Nothing to signify the passing of day or night. Only darkness, suffocating silence, and sleep-preventing agony to keep him company as he waited, ears straining and heart pounding, for his captors to appear and drag him away for another round of torture.

  Pulling the quilted robe draped around him closer, Gabriel then downed the entire glass of brandy and just as quickly poured another and finished it. It made his eyes water, and burned his throat, but the resulting warmth in his gut, and the blessed clouding of his mind brought such relief, he sighed. Another bottle might even allow an hour’s sleep before he had to meet his bride-to-be at Lambeth Palace.

  Beautiful Lilian.

  Though their conversation had been brief, the keen intelligence in her eyes and the compassion she’d demonstrated after unknowingly speaking of the one topic he wouldn’t discuss with anybody, had offered a sliver of hope. Not to mention her reaction when he’d kissed her hand. The way she’d gasped and blushed, gave lie to her proper ice princess façade. Passion lurked there. Possibly a great deal. Unawakened certainly, for Quentin in his infinite foolishness, would have wanted a duchess for decoration rather than pleasure. But knowing there might well be far more to Lady Lilian Nash than first thought, or her reputation allowed, was incredibly intriguing. And soon, so soon, she would be naked in his bed, that golden hair unbound and spread across his pillow. Finally, he would know the span of her waist, the size of her breasts, the color and taste of her nipples, and the wet heat of her cunt. The sounds she made when aroused, when desperate, when climaxing long and hard…

  “Good morning! You are up out of bed, excellent. I’ve pressed your wedding clothing, I’ll just lay everything out. Tis a fine day to be married, the sun is actually shining. I’ll be back with hot water for shaving and a light breakfast in a bit.”

  Startled at his valet’s sudden pres
ence in the middle of the night, Gabriel watched him open the curtains on the other side of the room then bustle away. But it wasn’t dark at all. In fact, weak sunlight streamed in.

  “Right then, Hobbs,” Gabriel called after him. Then he closed his eyes as a tidal wave of weariness washed over him. Just a few more minutes. Then he’d be ready to proceed.

  “Your Grace!”

  He jerked upright. Everything hurt. His mouth felt like sandpaper, his neck had a thousand kinks in it from resting against the gilt chair, and the smell of brandy wafted around him. Bloody hell. He’d knocked over the decanter, and a pool of expensive, amber liquid had soaked his right robe sleeve, and trickled onto the floor. “What?”

  “Oh, sir,” Hobbs said, his bushy eyebrows drawing together like two caterpillars about to duel. “You didn’t even go to bed, did you? You slept in that chair.”

  Flexing his aching jaw, Gabriel scowled. “No, Nanny, I did not sleep. Not nearly drunk enough.”

  “Well. It is nearly nine o’clock, and you aren’t even dressed. We must leave for Langton’s Chapel in a half hour at most. You cannot be late for your own wedding, and I have a fine job ahead of me!”

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  “I’m a soldier. Bathing and dressing swiftly…is not an issue. Shaving, maybe.”

  “No,” countered his valet irritably. “You are not a soldier. You were a soldier. Now you are a duke who is about to marry a lady. I will not have you looking like a vagrant, and be made a figure of fun amongst the upper servants.”

  Gabriel hauled himself out of the chair. “Ah, keep your wig on, old man. Direct me.”

  “I have hot water. There is no time for a full bath, so will have to be a quick sponge. But I must see to that jaw. You look like a pirate.”

  “A swashbuckling pirate?”

  “No, Your Grace. One who possesses a treasure chest full of seaweed, had his parrot jump ship, and lost his last shilling to a one-armed cardsharp named Big Nose Bertha.”

  “Touché,” said Gabriel, wincing at the description as he padded over to the washstand behind a screened-off corner of the bedchamber.

  The hot water from the ceramic basin felt good, but even with a soap lathered washcloth, he could still smell the lingering odor of brandy that had seeped into his skin. Damnation. Once he’d scrubbed as best as he could and dried off, he perched on a padded stool in a fresh robe, and Hobbs expertly lathered his face and began the painstaking task of shaving. His valet had the process down to a fine art, standing as far away as possible, making minimal skin-to-skin contact, shaving first the ruined side then the other. A quick trim of his still military-short hair to finish and Gabriel could then dress.

  They made it to his carriage with less than two minutes to spare.

  Gabriel smiled. “See? All that hand-wringing for naught.”

  His valet harrumphed, turning to bow low to Aunt Imogen. “Your Grace.”

  “Good morning, Hobbs,” said the soon to be dowager duchess with a small smile. “You have indeed worked a miracle. And at last, I have a wedding to celebrate.”

  Her voice wobbled on the last few words, and Gabriel looked at her in concern. “Are you sure…you have the strength for this, Aunt?”

  “Yes, my dear,” she replied, with a less-than-convincing pat to his arm. “Lady Lilian will make a fine wife and duchess, so this is…this is a happy day. We’d better leave at once though, one never knows how crowded the streets will be on any given morning.”

  An unfortunate truth. London had been difficult to get used to again after being away for so long, especially the frantic pace of carts, young imbeciles in phaetons and curricles, even town carriages. And the smell. Not in a thousand years would he be immune to that. Even though they were infinitely more fortunate living within Grosvenor Square located in the West End of the capital, sometimes the cloying mix of waste, rot and damp would waft on the wind, and the scent could only be described as foul. How people living in places like Whitechapel or Wapping by the London Docks managed without being violently ill, he couldn’t fathom.

  But they did have to go. Already he wouldn’t be presenting his best self to Lady Lilian after the endless silent night, there was no need to compound the crime with tardiness. She appeared to be someone who might value punctuality.

  “Very well,” Gabriel said, assisting his aunt into the ducal carriage. “To Langton’s Chapel. Without delay.”

  * * *

  “There is still time to call this whole thing off, you know.”

  Stunned, Lilian turned and glanced at Xavier who sat on the other side of the comfortably furnished antechamber just two doors down from Langton’s Chapel proper. “Beg pardon?”

  “You don’t have to do this,” he said forcefully. “Not for me. I’ll find an heiress.”

  Pippa looked up from the small book of Latin phrases she’d been reading to pass the time until the ceremony began, and pushed her spectacles further up her pert nose. Her defiance of Grandmother was to be the bluest of bluestockings, purposefully dissuading gentlemen from courting her. “We’ve had this conversation twenty times already, Xav. Each time Lilian has bested you with age and logic. And you said yourself that the wealthiest heiresses expect a duke or marquess in return for their chests of guineas.”

  “Stuff bloody logic,” said Georgiana, hands on hips as she paced, forever unable to sit quietly. Their youngest sister was by far the most beautiful, but also headstrong, blunt, and happiest when surrounded by a bevy or admirers or riding her horse astride at a hell for leather pace. Even Grandmother had almost given up on her. “This is marriage. This is forever. You can’t wed him, even if he is a duke. He’s mad!”

  Lilian’s gaze slid down to the beautiful Brussels lace embroidered on her pale blue silk wedding gown. “I don’t believe so.”

  “And how would you know? You’ve had one bloody conversation with the man.”

  “Which is precisely one more than you,” she replied, glaring at her sister.

  Georgiana blinked in surprise. “Well I never. A little of the spice we knew does remain under the proper lady shell!”

  “Shut it, Gigi,” said Xavier. “I don’t think you are helping to convince her.”

  “I’m going to marry Exton,” said Lilian firmly. “I will do my duty—”

  “Oh, here we go,” muttered Georgiana. “Duty, duty…ouch! Damnation, Xav. Keep those oversized feet away from my toes.”

  Pippa’s lips twitched at Xavier’s innocent expression, one he had perfected as a toddler, and used to advantage ever since. “You were saying, Lilian?”

  Taking a deep breath, she looked at her siblings. “I will do my duty, but I think it might well be an agreeable match. Exton is strong and honorable. He served king and country in an exemplary fashion, overcame great adversity with his injuries, and has a very loyal valet by all accounts.”

  “I’ve heard Wellington holds Exton in the highest regard,” said Xavier grudgingly, as he smoothed his elaborate cravat. “And we all know what a stiff-rump Old Nosey is.”

  “Such disrespect! But you are correct. And Exton doesn’t gamble, has no debts…and isn’t sixty-five with rotting teeth and gout. I’m certainly more fortunate than some young ladies in London.”

  Pippa shuddered and hugged her book close. “I’m never getting married. I’ll just be an eccentric but doting aunt to all my nieces and nephews.”

  “Oh yes you bloody well will marry,” said Georgiana. “Otherwise they won’t let me wed, and I’ve already a man in mind. No, I’m not saying who.”

  “You will. Just a few thumbscrews is all it would take,” said Xavier, twirling an imaginary monocle, then smoothly ducking as Georgiana threw a cushion at him.

  Rolling her eyes at their antics, Lilian again checked her appearance in the oval-shaped looking glass in the corner of the antechamber. Her opinion changed by the minute now, running the gauntlet between fetching and ghastly. Would Exton be pleased with her wedding attire? Think her too fussy? Too forma
l?

  Botheration. Ten o’clock mere minutes away, and yet it felt like an eternity.

  “Lilian?”

  She glanced back at Georgiana. “Mmmm?”

  “I meant to say, you don’t have to worry about any by-blows appearing at the front door, either.”

  Pippa groaned. “Gigi! Can you not?”

  “Oh hush up. It’s true. I overheard Father talking to his lawyer. And it is a good thing. Not at all gentlemanly to go around behaving like a barn cat in heat. Take note, Xav.”

  “Meow,” said Xavier, wiggling his eyebrows.

  Laughter exploded in the antechamber, and at last some of the tension left Lilian’s shoulders. Even though they sometimes tussled like barn cats, she was glad her sisters and brother were here on the day she left behind Lady Lilian Nash, and became Lilian Jordan-Ives, Duchess of Exton.

  “May I inquire,” said an ice-cold voice from the doorway, “why four supposedly wellborn individuals are carrying on like a gaggle of geese?”

  The room went silent, and Lilian sighed as her tension returned. Although she didn’t allow herself to think of her mother too much, it had crossed her mind how different their lives might have been if Mama hadn’t passed of that terrible fever. Grandmother had come to stay after the funeral, and lessons to correct their appalling speech and behavior commenced the following day. Even Lilian, who had tried hardest to please the elderly woman, had been ceaselessly reprimanded and punished.

  “Apologies, Grandmother,” mumbled Xavier.

  Lady Kingsford glided into the room and arranged herself on a chair. “Run along now, you three. I need to speak with Lilian alone.”

  Georgiana tilted her head. “Really, Grandmother? You left the bedding talk until now?”

  “Shhhh,” hissed Pippa, grabbing her sister’s arm and dragging her and Xavier from the room.

  Lilian twisted her fingers together. At long last, she would learn the secrets of the marriage bed? Her grandmother loathed speaking of intimate matters. The first time Lilian had experienced her monthly bleed, it had been a sympathetic maid who had soothed her fright and showed her how to arrange the cloths between her legs with the help of a cord around her waist.