Chapter Twelve

Julia tossed and turned in her dreams throughout the night, as though she were on board some storm-struck boat with Gregory. They argued through the wind and rain, about what she could not recall. She did vividly remember that his torso had been bare the entire time. When they hit a rock and began to sink beneath the waves, she awoke with a gasp.

The storm outside continued to pound as she got out of bed and parted the curtains. The world was misty, the glass fogging from the weather. Julia leaned her forehead against the window, delighted by how cool it felt on her fevered brow. But she couldn’t help sneaking glances at the bed. The sheets were rumpled from her body, but not from his. They needed to change that. Julia needed to consummate this union in order to feel secure, but last night…

She’d wanted him so badly that she felt liable to erupt out of her own skin, but when she’d felt his hand upon her sex, her mind had gone blank. It was like two Julias were sharing her body at the same time. The first one wanted to lock the bedroom door and devour every perfect naked inch of the man she’d married, while the other couldn’t shake the fear that had dogged her for over a decade now.

Perhaps she ought to tell Gregory about her fears and where they came from, but that only felt pathetic. Julia was well aware that she didn’t make for a fantasy bride. She was too old, too stubborn, too frustratingly human. Maybe she couldn’t have Gregory’s love—which she didn’t even want—but the idea of him pitying her was too galling to contemplate.

Maybe I ought to kick down the door and launch myself on top of him and have done with it.

Julia steeled herself as she turned for the door connecting her room to the duke’s. She would enter and take what was hers, as the Duchess of Ashworth. Then she’d be safe forevermore.

The sound of voices in the corridor outside froze her in her steps. It was a pair of servants murmuring some conversation. Julia glanced around and saw no clock, but imagined it couldn’t be much later than six in the morning. After years of living as Constance’s nursemaid, she was incapable of sleeping in.

She didn’t catch much as the servants passed her door, but she discerned two words: the mews.

Oh dear. Julia chewed her lip as she glanced outside yet again, this time looking across the courtyard. The carriage house and stables were grand at Carter House, but not especially well-equipped for violent weather. In the distance, Julia could see stablehands trudging in and out of the building, toddling with buckets full of rainwater. There had clearly been a minor flooding of the stalls. The poor horses.

Julia’s thoughts fled to Boudicca, the white mare she’d received from Gregory as a wedding gift. Named for a Celtic warrior queen who’d valiantly battled the Romans, Boudicca the horse seemed hardy and able to withstand any kind of foul weather. However, when thunder pealed yet again over the house, Julia swore she could catch the sound of frightened neighing all the way across the courtyard.

Horses were spirited, and creatures like Boudicca were often half wild. Julia understood that quite well and made up her mind.

She didn’t ring for a maid. There was no need, as she had become well used to dressing herself back home. Constance had gone on and on about the unnecessary expense of employing an extra maid to help Julia with her toilette, and so she’d learned how to sort herself out. Within moments, she was dressed in a simple gray morning outfit, and pulled on her boots. Julia put her hair in a quick, messy braid and wrapped a shawl about her shoulders as she left the room and hurried down the stairs.

She knew that Gregory’s servants would have everything well in hand, but Julia liked to make certain of things for herself.

…

Gregory groaned as the bedroom door opened. In his current sleep-addled state, he thought it might be Julia stealing into his room, ready to fling herself into his bed. The thought of her forced him into immediate alertness, and he sat up in hopes that he’d find her wearing a sultry smile and absolutely nothing else.

Unfortunately, it was Peele. Fortunately, the butler was entirely dressed.

“What is it?” Gregory croaked. He frowned; normally his valet, Tomkins, would awaken him just before noon.

“Beg pardon, Your Grace. It’s about the Duchess of Ashworth.” The butler appeared concerned.

Damn. Within instants, Gregory was out of bed and stepping into his clothes with grunts and growls. He refused to wait for the damn valet to help him. The storm appeared to have passed sometime during the night; as Peele opened the curtains, yellow sunlight soaked into the carpet.

“Is she all right?” Gregory muttered. His heart almost stopped as he considered she might have run away. Not that there was anything to run from—Gregory would never keep her against her will. But perhaps last night he’d shocked her with his forwardness. He should have kept his damn shield up and his…spear…down.

“Oh yes, Your Grace. Her Grace is perfectly well. Er. That is…”

“Peele, before my heart stops, come out and bloody say whatever it is.”

“Yes, Your Grace. The duchess is in the mews.”

Gregory blinked, leaving his shirt half unbuttoned. What the devil was Julia doing down there?

“Is she hurt? Are any of the stablehands hurt?” His mind spun. “How are the horses?”

“Entirely fine, sir. Her Grace is…well, perhaps the duke might come and see?”

Gregory found himself hurrying across the courtyard with his thoughts in a whirl. He scarcely even noticed a puddle as he stomped through it. The sky overhead had brightened to intense sapphire after a full night’s storm. As Gregory headed for the mews, he found two of his stablehands standing around talking…and laughing. Smiling. Enjoying themselves.

Gregory’s servants tended to be a happy bunch since he insisted upon giving them high wages and treating them well, but as he’d been prepared to find something amiss, the jovial spirits on display unnerved him.

“Where is the duchess?” he asked.

“Gregory? Is that you?”

Her voice came out from the stable door, and Gregory entered to find his wife holding a pitchfork.

And cleaning out a horse’s stall.

All this while her hair was down in a flyaway braid and damp mud clung to the hem of her dress. Gregory had seen high society women in every conceivable position, but he had never, in his wildest dreams, imagined he’d see one of them in the mews. Working.

“What the devil are you doing?” he snapped.

Julia wiped the back of her hand across her forehead as she straightened up. The chit looked at him as if he were the mad one.

“Isn’t it obvious?” she drawled.

“Am I paying my own servants to stand around and gawk at their mistress while she does their work?”

“Well, if you’d rather one of our stablehands go inside and embroider a cushion, I’m happy to trade off. This sort of thing appeals to me much more, anyway.” With that, Julia continued mucking out the damn stall of her white Arabian. The mare was contentedly munching on a breakfast of hay and oats, and her tail swished as her mistress patted her rump.

“You seem to think this a much more everyday sight than it actually is.”

“Honestly, Your Grace. You never struck me as so conventional.” The cheeky wench rolled her eyes at him. The sight of her insolence in this real, earthy setting did something wicked to Gregory. He felt rather like an animal himself, desperate to fling his wife down upon a bale of hay and claim her in the manliest fashion possible. “Surely you’ve mucked out a stall before.”

“I’ve never boiled my own water for tea before.”

“Lord, then you really do need to live a little bit.” Julia scoffed as she finished her chore, handing over the pitchfork to one of the stableboys as he entered.

“Er. Thank you, Yer Grace.” The youth blushed scarlet as Gregory gave him a withering stare.

“Don’t you dare be harsh with them.” Julia pulled off a pair of gloves as she shook her head. Her golden curls bounced with the movement, loosening further from her braid. “I forced them to let me help.”

“Help?” Gregory stared at the woman in disbelief as she made to fetch a bucket of water. “Unless you’d like to give me a fit, do not pick that up.”

“That does sound awfully tempting.” Julia faced him with her arms crossed, a willful expression on her face. That one, fiery look from her was enough to turn his blood molten. Somehow even the sight of her doing physical labor could get him hard.

Christ, he needed to take her inside, away from all the servants and horses. They shouldn’t see everything he wanted to do to her. The list was too extensive and much too vulgar.

“Why are you even out here?” Gregory passed a hand through his hair, trying to get himself under control.

“When I woke up, it was still storming and I could see that they were overwhelmed here in the stables. I’m used to helping with horses; my father insisted I learn to care for my own mare personally when I was growing up. He felt a true lady should know how to look after her animals. Anyway, I decided to muck out Boudicca’s stall while I was here. I helped feed everyone while the stableboys worked to keep the place from flooding. Really, it was no trouble whatsoever.” Julia frowned in bewilderment. “Why are you so flushed?”

Because you are the most frustrating wench I’ve ever known, and I want to take you now did not strike Gregory as the most appropriate thing to say.

“You named the horse Boudicca?” he asked instead. “After the warrior queen?”

“My. You’ve read a book before.” She seemed genuinely impressed.

“I was at Oxford.”

“That doesn’t make much difference. Many wealthy men of the ton are educated at Oxford and Cambridge, but they seemed to spend less time studying and more time indulging themselves at their clubs.”

“You take a very dim view of the educated male upper classes.” Gregory approached his wife, having to force himself not to throw her over his shoulder and cart her bodily back into the house.

“Only because I’ve spent time with them.” She turned up her chin in that delightful, arrogant manner of hers. “If I’d ever been allowed a spot at university, I would have been in heaven. I’d have studied history, philosophy, the giants of literature. Instead, I’ve had to spend my life simpering over needlework, pretending to be enthralled by the latest gossip from some country squire’s wife.”

“You also take a dim view of your own sex. At least you’re consistent.”

“Oh, hardly.” Julia appeared indignant at his comment. “I have far more pity for my own sex than yours. We’re supposed to maintain a ridiculous balancing act, knowing enough to make good conversation with you while knowing so little we require you to explain everything to us.” She fluttered her lashes in a comical way that delighted him to his core. “This is what your lot requires, after all. To feel like masters of all you survey.”

“For a newly minted leader of the ton, you seem to hold us all in some contempt.” He smiled.

“I didn’t want to marry simply to plan balls and flaunt my status, you know.” Gregory couldn’t help but enjoy Julia’s irritation. “Being a duchess means my voice shall be heard louder than ever now. I can initiate real change on behalf of my sex, no matter their station.”

Gregory was truly surprised. He’d known Julia wanted to escape her stepmother but had thought she wanted him for the most obvious reasons: freedom and wealth. He saw now how ungenerous that opinion had been.

“It might please you to know that I like an educated woman,” Gregory murmured. He advanced upon her, wanting to scoop her into his arms. “And, in fact, I did take my studies seriously. A true gentleman knows his way around a library and his private club equally well.”

Julia tugged her shawl tighter around her body, even though the air hadn’t chilled much in the last few minutes. Gregory always took a great deal of pleasure from watching her cheeks redden as he approached. He took her chin in his hand as he stood before her, turning her gaze to meet his.

“This isn’t quite the way I envisioned my honeymoon beginning,” he said.

“Indeed. You should have been by yourself on a ship bound for Barcelona at seven thirty this morning.”

“Oh no. Eleven. Even if the house were on fire, I could never think of rousing myself before nine.”

Julia scoffed. “Hard to believe I married such a layabout.”

The word “lay” only seemed to tease him.

“I’m a duke. And as you’re a duke’s wife, you would do well to remember that you’re now a woman of complete leisure.”

Julia shuddered. “Lord, what’s the fun in that?”

Gregory had married a perverse lady, indeed.

“You don’t understand the keen pleasure of spending an entire day in bed, do you?” he whispered. He put an arm around his bride, who yielded with sublime ease. Gregory wondered if she could feel the outline of his ever-hardening manhood pressed against her. He kissed the corner of her mouth, and the breathy sigh she gave only fanned the flames. “I can teach you all the finer points of indulging yourself.”

“Oh, can you?” She sounded challenging, but she shivered in his embrace. How wonderful.

“It’s one of the things I’m best at. Along with horsemanship, fencing, the finer points of art curation, and…this.”

His mouth closed over hers, and Gregory swore he could feel her entire body vibrate with pleasure. Enough waiting. The time had come to conclude their bargain.

Conclude it three times, perhaps. Just to be certain.

Gregory lifted Julia into his arms and made for the door.