That evening, Remington sat in the drawing room, watched the clock, and leafed through his well-read copy of Robinson Crusoe. But he couldn’t concentrate on the story.
His fiancée was late. This morning, as he’d marched her back across the garden and into the house, he had informed her she was to be downstairs at seven o’clock. It was now almost eight.
He usually accepted, with weary tolerance, the peccadilloes of beautiful women, and making a belated entrance was surely the most common transgression. But he would have never suspected his duchess of such petty dramatics—which proved he understood her not at all.
After the incident with Dickie, Remington had thought she would faint from alarm. He’d taken her into the house, wet his handkerchief, and pressed it to her cheeks. She’d pushed his hand away, and with silent dignity had made her way upstairs. He hadn’t seen her since, but he had believed her sufficiently cowed to submit to his plans without further insubordination.
A woman, his father used to say, would always prove a man wrong when he least expected it. It appeared his father was right.
The brief sparks of originality and kindness he saw in her were nothing more than the polished performance of an aristocrat who thought she could manipulate him. Much to her own dismay she had learned he was in command.
Yet she was late, and that left him to ponder the events at the bank.
Clark had been shocked at Remington’s revelation, but he’d proved his mettle when he’d answered, “If this is the truth, if Magnus truly is your enemy, then I’ll take a weapon to your wedding and watch for treachery every second.” Before Remington could thank him, Clark had added, “But on the same token if, for reasons of vengeance, you ever harm the duchess, I’ll consider it my responsibility to hunt you down and bring you to justice.”
Remington liked Clark—for his bravery, and his candor. “I won’t harm her. What is mine, I keep, and I swear you won’t regret your decision.”
The two men had solemnly shaken hands, and Remington had departed.
Now Remington again glanced at the clock.
Madeline’s new defiance boded ill. Probably she was sulking, but Beth would have let him know if she was refusing to dress. His duchess would be downstairs in ten minutes—he glanced at the chiming clock—or he would go up and get her.
Finally, from the floor above, he heard the faint, pleasing chime of women’s voices.
At last. Her Grace had consented to make her appearance.
As Lady Gertrude descended the last few stairs, she was saying in a distraught tone, “Dear girl, my point is, I don’t think he’s going to like this.”
She didn’t think he was going to like…what? Rising, he made his way into the foyer.
When Lady Gertrude caught sight of him, dismay chased across her soft features. Her tone changed to chipper. Excessively chipper. “Oh, sir, Her Grace looks beautiful, absolutely ravishing.”
The duchess stood one step up from the foyer, her hand on the rail, her gaze distant.
And her magnificent mane of hair had been cut. Short. Wisps curled around her face, caressing her forehead and her cheeks, and longer strands of hair clung to her neck. Short. She had shorn her hair.
Striding furiously to the foot of the stairs, he stood directly below her, and in the voice which made subordinates cower, he demanded, “What the hell have you done to yourself?”
Turning her head, she looked down at him with calm indifference. “Mr. Knight, I warned you—one doesn’t swear in mixed company. Not in England.”
She dared reprimand him…now? Now, when she looked so different? This cut changed her appearance from that of a soft, timid, gentlewoman to one of a daring hoyden, and by God, he wanted his other fiancée back. “I’ll damned well swear if I want to, especially when faced with this kind of desecration.”
Lady Gertrude wrung her hands. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear. I told you he would be—”
Turning, he glared at her.
She shut her mouth and backed away.
“Mr. Knight, do not intimidate her,” the duchess commanded. In a softer tone, she said to Lady Gertrude, “Hush, my lady, I don’t require Mr. Knight’s approval.”
His blood rose at Madeline’s cool dismissal of his opinion. “The day will come, Your Grace, when you’ll want my approval.”
“Really?” she drawled, and for the first time he thought she sounded every inch an English aristocrat. “You won’t mind if I don’t hold my breath.”
As she stood on the step, their heights were almost comparable. His eyes were only a few inches below hers, and he viewed too clearly her pale, cool face and studied unconcern. His hands itched to take hold of her and show her how very quickly he could make her want him, and his approval.
But what new defiance would that provoke? He spoke slowly, weighing each word with significance. “Where is your hair?”
“A good bit of it is on my head.” Lifting her fingers, she sifted them through the strands, as if still marveling at the transformation. “But Beth carried most of it away. A great long mare’s tail, it was. Now it’s gone.”
The hair he’d imagined spreading over his pillow, clutching in his fist, using as a rope to bind him to this woman…that hair now adorned a trash barrel in the kitchen. “This is Beth’s doing?” He would make the maid sorry.
“I took the scissors and hacked off all of the length,” Eleanor informed him.
He winced at the picture that called to mind.
“I cut it crooked, too. Poor Beth had to fix matters, and her hands are still trembling with fear of what you’ll do.”
“So they should.” His fingers flexed. “She should tremble.”
“I told her she had nothing to fear. I told her you were a great many things, but unfair was not one of them.” Eleanor’s dark blue eyes watched and assessed him while she spoke. “Am I wrong, Mr. Knight?”
Of course she was not. He wouldn’t dismiss a maid for doing as her mistress commanded. But he didn’t have to, didn’t want to, admit that now. In a guttural tone, he asked, “What made you do this?”
She leaned toward him, close enough that he could smell the faint perfume of some exotic flower. Close enough that her plump, pale breasts strained against her bodice. “I think you know.”
He did. She’d cut her hair because he’d told her how he would use it to subdue her. He leaned forward, too, until their noses almost touched. “You’ll grow it again.”
“If I wish it.”
“You’ll grow it again, and quickly.”
She smiled, a smooth, satisfied tilt of the lips. “I promise you, Mr. Knight, whether I do or not will have nothing to do with you.” She sounded so certain.
He didn’t understand why, and he didn’t like it. She was timid, meek, frightened of him. He’d seen evidence of her caution at every turn. Didn’t she realize how thoroughly he held her in his power?
Searching her face, he sought the reason for her composure. But as she met his gaze, he got lost in her eyes. They were beautiful eyes, wide and deep blue with long, dark, curling lashes that fluttered. He could almost see the soul she held so privately, and he wanted to know her. All of her. Her mind as well as her body.
To his astonishment, what started out as a furious visual interrogation changed. Softened. As they gazed at each other, each remembered that moment in the alley when he’d almost, almost kissed her. The remnants of the morning’s passion grew between them, and he wanted to taste her, here, now…
Lady Gertrude’s voice intruded with all the subtlety of a marauding bandit. “Mr. Knight, what do you think of Madeline’s gown?”
He started.
The duchess straightened abruptly. She stared at her hands as they nervously smoothed her skirt over her thighs.
He watched, too, unable to look away from that revealing introspection.
Lady Gertrude intruded again, and this time with more success. “I especially like the neckline, and the austere cut, and the way the little sleeves puff up and show her fine white arms.”
Remington listened to Lady Gertrude and observed the gown. The duchess wore a cream muslin evening robe, crossed across her bosom and opening to show a burgundy satin petticoat. The edges of the robe were embellished with a rich green trim in a subtle Greek pattern. Her satin slippers matched her petticoat, and a burgundy ribbon was threaded through her dark hair. A cream-colored fan dangled from her wrist. The effect was arresting. Not at all what he would have chosen, but with her height and her slender proportions, it was an excellent selection. Yet…yet…
Grimly, he said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but this gown isn’t one of the garments I had purchased for you.”
“No. It’s one of mine.” Madeline sounded so composed, the moment between them might never have happened.
“You said you didn’t have the proper clothing.”
“What a surprise,” she said, deadpan. “I found them in my trunk.”
She said nothing else, no matter how pointedly he waited, and so he scrutinized her without subtlety. “Very handsome.” He thought, for a moment, he saw relief in her eyes.
Then he delivered an ultimatum. “But I beg that you go change. On your first appearance as my betrothed, I would have you wear a more fashionable outfit.” His gaze flicked to her hair. “If not a more proper coiffure.”
In what was the perfect illustration of noble haughtiness, she said, “I am the future duchess of Magnus. I set the fashion.”
He wouldn’t tolerate her defiance. “Go change.”
Pulling on her cream, over-the-elbow gloves, she said, “I fear that’s impossible. It offends every convention to arrive at the party after the Prince of Wales, and we’re already late.”
He didn’t know if that was true. English society had so many rules and mores he couldn’t comprehend, not to mention those interminable titles and their hierarchy and their different methods of address. He had perfected the abashed apology for the many times he’d said or done the wrong thing, called someone by the wrong title, entered a room before or after the proper time. So far the English had tolerated his mistakes. He doubted they would tolerate an insult to their prince. “You did this on purpose.”
For the first time, he saw the flash of anger in her blue eyes. “Of course. Did you really think I would meekly wear the clothing you had procured for me, as if I were some light-o’-love you rented for the month?”
Lady Gertrude gasped and covered her mouth. Gradually, her shocked expression changed, and her eyes began to twinkle.
Then the truth was borne in on him.
He had lost.
It was a small battle, unimportant among his schemes, but he lost so seldom he could scarcely comprehend it.
He had lost. Lost to this quiet, diffident, stubborn duchess.
Very well. He would remember, and in the future, he would fine-tune his tactics and never underestimate her again. “I would never make the mistake of thinking you a light-o’-love, Your Grace. I would more likely think you a chess master.”
She inclined her head, accepting his tribute as a matter of course.
He accepted his black evening cape from the waiting butler and swung it around his shoulders. He took in hand his tall, carved wooden cane, and with a flourish, planted it on the floor, looking every inch a proper British gentleman while knowing he was every inch a thoroughly American barbarian. In a tone as soft as velvet and as harsh as winter, he said, “Be warned, my duchess. The next move is mine.”