Lila had never imagined she could find so much satisfaction in her daily routine as a wife.
In the mornings, she and Pemberth went riding, visiting various farmers and tenants in the area, and if the weather did not permit, sometimes explored secret nooks and crannies inside the estate. They shared a nuncheon and went their separate ways for the afternoon—he attended to fences and horses and sheep and whatnot, and she continued reading through the documents that had accumulated over the past two years.
The former duke, Keenan—she had come to feel almost as though she knew him—had kept only slightly better records than her duke.
She’d found a few interesting items and set them aside. She didn’t want to bring them to Pemberth’s attention until she was certain they actually meant something.
Aha! This was what she was looking for. A previously opened letter from Findlay and Nottingham Imports and Exports. She opened the journal and confirmed her suspicions.
And then she realized that another note had been stuffed inside along with the statement. One that had very recognizable handwriting scrawled across it.
Her father’s. Dated 19 August 1826
Your Grace,
As per your promise, made on 1 Sept, Year of our Lord, 1825, and since payment of eight thousand pounds has not been forthcoming, I demand you follow through with said alternative promise of marriage to my eldest daughter, Lila Catherine Breton, making her Duchess of Pemberth before 31 December of this year. Failure to comply will result in damages taken by three particularly unpleasant gentlemen in my employ.
Please acknowledge receipt of this demand within one fortnight.
Salutations,
Quimbly
Another note in what Lila now recognized as Keenan’s handwriting.
Paid in full, 30 August.
But this made no sense at all!
She traced back events in her mind. Blakely had called off his betrothal to her in June of 1825 and shortly afterward, her father had moved their family under what had seemed to be havey-cavey circumstances up to Bryony Manor.
Apparently, her father had negotiated some sort of devil’s bargain with Pemberth’s brother last summer.
But if Keenan had paid the debt in full, then why had Pemberth been forced to marry her?
She frantically began searching through the accounting journal once again. She needed to figure this out. Something was not right.
What if her Pemberth had married her under false pretenses?
What had really happened to Keenan?
There must be more here! She began opening drawers and checking for any files she might have missed. At the bottom of the lowest left-hand drawer, she noticed something odd. The drawer appeared shallow in depth.
Feeling like something of a sleuth, investigator, or spy, she located the knife she normally used to open envelopes and began wedging it around the wooden bottom.
Pop!
It lifted off. And beneath the false drawer, a small stack of papers sat innocently beckoning her to peruse.
Certificate of Death
She skimmed over the information.
Keenan David Timothy Saint-Pierre, Died 8 September, Year of our Lord 1826.
And then her eyes moved to the next line.
Cause of death: Suicide
“Has the desk finally consumed you completely?” Pemberth’s voice had her slamming the drawer shut and jolting up. He obviously had not intended her to discover the death certificate. He would have informed her of the hidden papers if he’d wanted her to know.
Wouldn’t he?
Something cold took hold of her heart at the information she’d discovered earlier. Why had he married her if the debt had been paid?
What has Father done now?
“Oh, um. Not yet.” And then she forced a smile. “You’re back early.” Should she ask him now? He looked more handsome than ever today, dressed somewhat formally in a waistcoat and black jacket. He’d been visiting their neighbor on the north, an elderly man who wanted to thin his herds. Vincent had hoped he might be able to strike a bargain.
He did not keep a valet and so she’d tied his cravat earlier that morning. She blinked at the illogical notion that each day he did, indeed, appear even more handsome to her than he had the day before.
More lovable.
“Lord Oakley is willing to sell me the sheep on credit.” He appeared quite satisfied with himself. She’d requested a subscription to The Observer and the first of the papers had arrived two days ago. He’d been quite right in that there was more profit in sheep than potatoes. “Come here and perhaps we can celebrate.” His smile hinted at his lusty intent.
And without fail, her body was his to command.
A few suggestive words from him and her thighs turned to what felt like liquid jelly and her breasts ached with a need she’d never realized she had.
Debt paid in full.
For the first time, she wondered if she might be an imposter—his wife under false pretenses.
And yet her legs carried her to where he stood, and she daringly reached out to cover his manhood. The hardness she discovered there, almost without fail, had her tilting her head back for his kiss. “Did you lock the door?” she mumbled against his lips.
“Always,” he answered back.
He walked her backward to the long settee where they’d already created a myriad of wicked memories and went to push her down to sit.
“No.” She spun them around instead and pressed upon his shoulders.
He did not resist, and in the next instant sat sprawled in the middle of the settee, legs spread as he watched her with patient curiosity.
Lila had heard of such an act, and after he’d pleasured her so many times with his own mouth, wanted to see if she could achieve similar results.
She also wanted to know it more intimately— that piece of him that connected them together and had seemingly touched the deepest part of her.
She dropped her gaze to the fasteners on his breeches and at the same time, lowered herself to her knees. Before she could even reach for the buttons, his hands were already assisting her with the task.
“You don’t have to.” Married barely just over a fortnight and it seemed he could already read her mind.
“I know.”
He tugged at his shirt and lowered the flap of his falls.
She’d caught glimpses of it before. She’d even held it in her hand a time or two. But this…
With silken skin, it was almost hot to the touch. He groaned when she placed her hand at the base, her fingers not quite capable of wrapping all the way around it.
It jumped. Almost of its own accord.
It was the most fascinating thing she’d ever laid eyes upon.
She leaned forward and—
“Your Grace!” There was a loud knocking on the door. “Are you in there? You have visitors!”
At this, Pemberth groaned, drawing a laugh from Lila. This was the first time since her arrival that anyone other than the steward or one of the local tradesmen had deigned to come visiting. Impeccable timing!
With a grimace, she rose and smoothed her skirts.
“One moment!” She moved slowly to the door in order to allow Pemberth a chance to… rearrange himself. It wouldn’t do for his breeches to be standing at attention to receive their guest. Lila stifled a grin at the image. Poor man.
After a glance over her shoulder to ascertain he was presentable, Lila opened the door with what she hoped appeared to be a cool smile.
“Thought you were alone, Your Grace.” Mrs. Smith peeked around her with a sly smile. “I’ve put Mr. and Mrs. Kemp as well as Miss Kemp in the front drawing-room. They’re expecting you shortly.”
Lila wished she’d been able to do something to improve the room, but it had not been high on her list of priorities.
Besides, she’d far preferred the coziness of Pemberth’s study. She reached a hand out for her husband, who approached from across the room.
“In that case, we mustn’t keep them waiting, must we? Pemberth?”
Three minutes later, Lila and Pemberth sat across from two of the nearby village’s most elite citizens—and their daughter.
“Well, we never thought to send invitations up here before, it’s been so long since Glenn Abby has had a duchess in residence. But I told Mr. Kemp I’d wager that a dignified young woman such as yourself, Your Grace, might be finding herself in need of some socializing.” Mrs. Kemp was apparently in charge of the local charity and was heading up an assembly dance in two days’ time. “I know it’s late notice, but we aren’t overly formal all the way up here, now are we, Lavinia?”
The younger woman had not even the decency to drag her gaze away from Pemberth when she nodded. Lila would have liked to reach across the small space between them. Drool needed wiping off of Miss Lavinia Kemp’s chin.
Pemberth seemed oblivious to the young woman’s attention.
But a dance! And other ladies and gentlemen with which to converse. It wasn’t that Lila did not appreciate her husband’s rather stimulating company, but it had been months since she’d been afforded such an opportunity.
“Would you care to attend?” Pemberth turned to her. “I know—”
“I’d love to!” She turned back to Mrs. Kemp. “And thank you so much for making the drive to invite us. Would you care for some tea?”