Trapped.
Eleanor was trapped in this man’s house. “I can’t stay here.” She shrank from Mr. Knight, from the visions he inspired. Visions of villainous seduction and of social banishment. And beneath it all, a desperate excitement, an excitement that she wouldn’t admit to, but it was there nonetheless. If he came to her bedchamber in the dark of night, would she do the proper thing? Would she fight?
In a soft voice, she said, “I’m…unwed.”
“For the moment.” His words, his voice, his gaze made clear his intentions toward her—or rather, toward his bride. He intended their marriage to be not one of convenience but one created of passion and tangled emotions. “We will be wed. That I promise you.”
If she believed that, she wouldn’t fight his seduction at all.
Her mouth dropped open at her own lascivious notion.
His eyebrows veed in a demonic scowl. “You look stunned. Surely you knew I would wed you, regardless of any obstacle.”
“It’s not that.” It’s so much worse. In the clear, careful tone of a teacher explaining fractions to an eight-year-old, she said, “I don’t know how matters are handled in America, but in England, if I stay here with you, my reputation will be ruined regardless of your future intention.”
“If you stayed here alone, more than your reputation would be ruined.” His gaze dropped to her lips, her breasts, and lingered.
Eleanor knew very well her traveling clothes were dark, sturdy and covered every inch of skin up to her throat, but his scrutiny made her want to check her buttons to see if they’d somehow disappeared. Her breasts swelled, and her nipples pressed against her bodice. It was an odd sensation, breathtaking in its boldness, and proved without a doubt she must banish her meekness and demand her freedom! Instead, she could only falter, “You mean…you would…”
“Sneak into your bedroom in the dark of night and seduce you? Yes, my darling girl, without a qualm.”
She didn’t want him holding her hand anymore. Her palms were sweaty.
“That’s why I brought you a chaperon.” Leaning over, he rang a bell sitting on the table.
Torn between relief and misery, she asked, “A chaperon? Are you mad? There isn’t a chaperon in the world respectable enough to protect my reputation while I live here.”
From the doorway, a merry, feminine voice proclaimed, “My dear niece, of course there is.”
Eleanor swiveled and gaped.
“And here I am!” The lady in the doorway stood with arms out to embrace the room. She was short and plump, dressed in a gown of modish lavender, which gave a sheen to her swirl of white hair. “My first advice to you, dear Madeline, is that you not hold hands with Mr. Knight while you’re alone in a room with him. In fact, until you’re married, I would not recommend that you be alone in a room with him at all, for I believe he is a scoundrel of unparalleled guile.”
Eleanor closed her fist over the handkerchief that bound her palm, and she rose slowly to her feet. “Lady…Gertrude?”
Lady Gertrude bustled in, and in her own indefatigable way, burbled, “You remember! It has been too long.”
It had been longer than she realized, for Lady Gertrude, the countess of Glasser, was the sister of Madeline’s mother, and not related to Eleanor at all. Not that the dear lady had refused Eleanor her affection on the rare times they’d met. Quite the contrary. Lady Gertrude’s kind heart had embraced Eleanor as surely as it did her own niece.
But now Lady Gertrude would destroy this masquerade before it had even started.
As Lady Gertrude swept forward to embrace the duchess, Remington watched them.
So this was Madeline de Lacy, the marchioness of Sherbourne and the future duchess of Magnus. From his observation so far, she was not the typical English noblewoman. He had been prepared to break her, like a spirited horse who had never worn saddle or bridle. Instead, when he looked at her, he saw a diffident woman without any sense of her own consequence. Her face was gently rounded, with dimples in her cheeks, an indent in her chin, and full, supple lips. She swept her black hair into an unfashionable roll at the back of her head, and if he knew his women—and he did—when unpinned it would reach to her waist with a natural wave that made a man want to coil his fingers in the living strands. Her body was bound in dark, unsightly clothes, but that camouflage couldn’t conceal a generous bosom, and when he had wrapped his fingers around her waist, he had discovered how narrow that waist was, and beneath that, the graceful flare of her hips.
He looked down at his hands and smiled. The feel of her had burned through her petticoats to his flesh, and he thought—no, he knew—the same flame had licked at her, for she’d examined him as if he were wild and unruly.
Ah, if she knew how cold and deliberate his actions, how important she was to his plans, she would be more than wary, she would be frightened. But of course she didn’t, nor would he let her know. Not until it was too late for her family—and for her.
She was his. His duchess.
Lady Gertrude had portrayed the relationship between her and her niece as warm, and he thought it must be, for Lady Gertrude was pleasant, kind, and she knew everyone in English society.
Yet his duchess looked aghast to see her aunt.
“Dear child, I’m so happy that you’ve returned from the Continent at last. With that dreadful Napoleon marching around, and all his disgraceful soldiers imprisoning good English citizens, I was worried about you and”—Lady Gertrude looked up at his duchess, and her eyebrows rose—“Eleanor…”
Eleanor glanced over the top of Lady Gertrude’s head at Remington, and he clearly saw her swallow. In a rush of words, she said, “Eleanor stayed behind this time. She’s quite fatigued from the journey.”
“Well! Of course. She must be.” Lady Gertrude sounded brisk—and amused. “Who wouldn’t be fatigued after four years traipsing across every country in Europe? But Eleanor’s absence makes it an especially good thing Mr. Knight requested I chaperon you.” Lady Gertrude leaned up and patted his cheek. “Dear boy.”
The amazing thing was—she meant it. She was kindliness personified, and in the five days of his acquaintance, he had developed an affection for Lady Gertrude. She had that way with people. Everybody liked her, even those who found themselves on the wrong side of her very frank tongue—as he had. She might have consented to be the young lady’s chaperon, she might now be pleasant and caring, but on their first meeting she had made her opinion of this match clear.
In return, he had made his indifference to her opinion clear, and so they’d come to neutral ground, with Lady Gertrude agreeing that she wouldn’t interfere with his marriage plans as long as he abided by the rules of her chaperonage.
Seating herself on the sofa, Lady Gertrude tugged Eleanor down beside her. “What an extraordinary event has brought you to this moment, eh? What do you think about the duke of Magnus and his latest folly?”
On that subject, his duchess spoke decisively. “I think it’s a shame he can’t control his urge to gamble long enough to think of his only daughter.”
The flash of her eyes startled Remington. “Am I so bad a match, then?” he asked, and waited with bated breath and ill-concealed humor to hear her thoughts on his self.
Still in that tart tone, his duchess said, “I don’t know, Mr. Knight, I know nothing about your character. But while perhaps few young women in this day are allowed to wed whom they wish, all at least meet their future husbands before the betrothal is announced. It’s a shame that a duchess is denied that privilege.”
“Exactly my notion! Your sentiments do you honor, dear.” Lady Gertrude shot Remington a glance. “I thought that Mr. Knight was a victim of his own urge to gamble, also, but now that I’ve met him, I suspect he knew exactly what he was doing when he won my niece in a game.”
Remington lifted his eyebrows in supercilious innocence.
Lady Gertrude concluded, “He’s a dear boy, and a good match.”
“For whom?” his duchess snapped.
Then he would have sworn she bit her tongue. “For you,” he answered. “Only for you.”
“Sit down, dear boy,” Lady Gertrude said. “You make me nervous, looming about like a great, leggy brute.”
Reflecting he had never been called a great, leggy brute before, he sat on a chair that placed him so he could best view his bride.
Touching the side of the teapot, Lady Gertrude said, “I was hoping for a spot of tea, but it’s cold.” She frowned at the shards scattered on the table and the floor. “Did you break a cup?”
Madeline blushed a miserable red, and hid her injured hand beneath her skirt. “I did.”
Lady Gertrude blinked. “That’s so unlike you! Or at least as I remember you. Ah, well, no use crying over a few pieces of porcelain. Will you ring for more hot water?”
“With your permission, Mr. Knight,” Madeline murmured, lifting the bell.
He gestured his acquiescence. “Please. I want you to think of this house as your home now.”
“I…I can’t…that’s not possible. I must return home!”
He bent his gaze, impressing his will on her. “If I have my way, you’ll never return to your father’s house.”
She turned her head away, rejecting him with every movement.
That was fine. He liked a challenge, and this duchess, with her modesty and shyness, tested him. He watched as she rang just loudly enough to bring a footman running. He watched, too, as she spoke to the footman firmly but quietly, like a woman who had been trained to get results without calling attention to herself.
He crossed his legs. “Would you ladies be so kind as to enlighten me how Her Grace has so exalted a title when she’s as yet unmarried?”
“Because of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth,” Lady Gertrude said, as if that clarified everything.
He waited, but when nothing more was forthcoming, he said, “I find that so simple an explanation eludes me.”
“Probably because you’re an American. Not that I have anything against Americans. No, not at all. I find them refreshing, with their odd way of speaking and their open manners.” Lady Gertrude lifted her lorgnette and peered at him. “Although holding my dear niece’s hand while unchaperoned is a little too open, may I tell you!”
“Yes, ma’am.” It was too open in America, also, but he had no intention of admitting that, or that he always pushed every matter as quickly as he could toward its natural conclusion—and that conclusion was always predetermined by himself. He was not a man who allowed fate to take its winding path to God-knew-what destination. He shaped his own destiny—and now he shaped this young duchess’s, too.
“One of my ancestors was lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth, and she saved Her Majesty’s life. In gratitude, Her Majesty granted a dukedom to the lady, one which of course always comes to the eldest son, if there was one—but if a daughter is the firstborn, then the title falls to her.” Madeline spoke slowly, choosing her words as if she considered every syllable, and her voice sounded like…like heartbreak.
And what had the future duchess of Magnus to be heartbroken about? She was born to privilege and wealth, and he’d learned only too well the way English aristocrats dealt with those they considered to be their inferiors. Nothing got in their way. No ethics held them back. They thought nothing of ruin…or murder.
Yet he would get his revenge, and in the end poor Madeline would know the true meaning of heartbreak.
He allowed none of his thoughts to appear on his face. In a properly respectful tone, he asked, “Such a title is very rare, is it not?”
“My family is the only one to be so blessed,” Madeline answered. “But no one could gainsay the will of Queen Elizabeth.”
“A strong woman,” he said. Not like this meek, impressionable girl.
Oddly, she shot him a hurt glance. He would almost have thought she’d read his mind.
So, although it felt a little like kicking a puppy, he pressed his advantage. “As long as your father’s alive, you aren’t yet the duchess. All that deference isn’t truly warranted, is it?”
In an oppressive tone, Lady Gertrude said, “My niece is the marchioness of Sherbourne and the future duchess, a position that warrants great respect among the ton. She is, in fact, frequently called Her Grace, and given all the privileges of her future rank.”
He had been soundly rebuked, and he bowed his head in recognition of a worthy adversary.
“Whether or not he gives me the respect due to a duchess is of no importance,” Madeline said with a flick of scorn. “Americans are not impressed with the aristocracy, or so they claim. One hopes, however, Mr. Knight behaves with suitable courtesy to other women he encounters—in all walks of life.”
Yes, Lady Gertrude had rebuked him, but it was the contempt from his future wife that stung. “I’ll do my best not to embarrass you.”
“Do your best not to embarrass yourself,” she said with icy composure. “Now here is Bridgeport with our tea.”
The butler entered with a clean tea tray, a new pot of tea, and the maid, who carried a fresh platter of biscuits and cakes. This time Milly didn’t make the mistake of staring at the duchess, but with a nervous glance at Remington, quickly deposited the platter and departed.
Madeline considered him reproachfully.
What had she expected him to do? Allow a little chit of a maid to stare? Sometimes, he didn’t understand women.
But worse, sometimes he did.
She picked up the pot, and this time her hand was quite steady. She poured for him, for Lady Gertrude, and for herself.
When she was finished, Lady Gertrude indicated the handkerchief still wrapped around Madeline’s palm. “What have you done?”
“A small injury,” Madeline said. “Nothing more.”
Rising, he came as if to get his tea. Instead, he took her hand in his, unwrapped it, and examined the mark. “You should be careful in my house. There are dangers here, and I don’t want you hurt.”
Her gaze flew to his. Her lips parted, and again she looked properly anxious.
What a dichotomy she was! She seemed timid until he spoke derisively of her title, and then she spoke in an icy ferocity. A few minutes later, with a few words artfully couched to sound like a threat, he once again reduced her to diffidence.
If he was not careful, this woman would fascinate him.
Taking his cup, he returned to his chair. “On Lady Gertrude’s advice, I have accepted invitations on our behalf to a number of parties.”
Madeline sat up straight, and her hand went to her throat. “You didn’t!”
So. At last she showed the snooty behavior he’d expected. She didn’t want to be seen in public with him. He stirred his tea. “No doubt you object because you didn’t bring the proper clothing.”
Taking a relieved breath, she grasped onto the lifeline he had thrown her. “Yes! That’s why!”
Coolly, he yanked it from her hands. “I have a seamstress waiting to fit you into the gowns worthy of my wife.”
“You can’t…I can’t…that wouldn’t be proper.” She turned to Lady Gertrude. “Would it, ma’am?”
Lady Gertrude frowned at him. “You didn’t tell me you had taken the liberty of getting Madeline clothes.”
“I thought you would object, and I find it easier to ask forgiveness than beg permission.” An explanation that covered many sins. “For the next few nights, we’ll be attending parties all over London, being introduced as the duchess and her most devoted fiancé.”
“Oh.” Madeline scarcely breathed the word.
He could have sworn this new development horrified her more than any of the rest of the shocks that had come before. How much he would enjoy dragging the little snob about on his arm, forcing her to face London’s hostesses with a smile.
But this week held more and bigger shocks for her—starting now. “Then, three nights hence, we’ll be hosting our own party right here. The invitations have gone out. The acceptances are pouring in.”
“A party. Here.” Her dark lashes fluttered as she tried to maintain eye contact. “Why…why is that necessary?”
He seldom smiled, but he smiled now, and with a great deal of charm. “We must have a party. We must celebrate our betrothal—and our upcoming nuptials. And on that night, I will present you with your betrothal ring, and place it on your finger. As a symbol of our eternal love, never will you remove it—until your death.”