The Inconvenient Duchess. Christine Merrill
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on? I’d assumed that the vicar would give you the speech on the duties of the husband. Or that perhaps you recalled some of them, after Bethany. But, remembering your last marriage, I could see where you might come to me for advice.’
Marcus’s fist slammed down on the desk as though he had no control. ‘How dare you, St John? Damn you for speaking of Bethany, today of all days.’
‘Why not, Marcus? She is never far from my mind. Just because you wish to forget her does not mean that I will.’
He flexed his hands and pushed away the image of them closing on St John’s windpipe, and then placed them carefully on the blotter. ‘You promised a truce and I see how quickly you forget it. Let us pretend for a moment, St John, that you have any honour left as it pertains to this house.’
‘Very well, brother. One last game of “Let’s Pretend”, as we played when we were little. And what are we pretending, pray tell?’
‘That you are planning to go willingly from this house, today, and that it will not be necessary for me to have the servants evict you.’
‘Go? From this house? Why ever would I do that, Marcus?’
‘Because you hate it here as much as I do. And you hate me. There. There are two good reasons. I must remain here to face what memories there are. As you are quick to point out to me, whenever we are alone, I am the Duke of Haughleigh. And now I am to be married, and chances are good that I will soon have a son to inherit. There is no reason for you to wait in the house for me to break my neck on the stairs and leave you the title and the entail. I am certain that, should the happy accident you are waiting for occur before a son arrives, my wife will notify you and you can return.’
‘You are right, Marcus. I do hate you, and this house. But I have grown quite fond of Miranda.’
‘In the twelve hours you have known her.’
‘I have spent more time with her during those hours than you have, Marcus. While you were busy playing lord of the manor and issuing commands, I was stealing a march. And now, I should find it quite hard to part myself from my dear little sister, for that is how I view her.’ The smile on his face was deceptively innocent. Marcus knew it well.
‘You will view her, if at all, from a distance.’ Marcus reached into the desk drawer and removed a leather purse that clanked with gold when he threw it out on to the desktop. ‘You will go today, and take my purse with you. You need not even stop in your room to pack, for Wilkins is already taking care of that. Your things will be on the way to the inn within the hour.’
‘You think of everything, don’t you, Marcus? Except, of course, what you will do if I refuse to accede to your command.’
‘Oh, St John, I’ve thought of that as well.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. You can leave for the inn immediately, and from there to points distant. Or you can leave feet foremost for a position slightly to the left of Mother. The view from the spot I plan for you is exceptional, although you will no longer be able to enjoy it.’
‘Fratricide? You have become quite the man of action in the ten years we’ve been parted, Marcus.’
‘Or a duel, if you have the nerve. The results will be the same, I assure you. I can only guess how you’ve spent the intervening years, but I’ve studied with the best fencing masters in Italy, and am a crack shot. I’ve allowed you a period of mourning and have made what efforts I could to mend the breach between us and put the past to rest. It has been an abject failure. After today, you are no longer welcome in my home, St John. If you do not leave willingly, I will remove you myself.’
‘Afraid, Marcus?’
‘Of you? Certainly not.’ He shifted in his chair, trying to disguise the tension building within him.
‘Of the past coming back to haunt you, I think.’
‘Not afraid, St John. But not the naïve young man I once was. There is no place for you here. What is your decision?’
St John leaned an indolent hand forward and pulled the purse to himself. ‘How could I refuse your generosity, Marcus? I will say hello to all the old gang in London, and buy them a drink in honour of you and your lovely new wife.’
Marcus felt his muscles relax and tried not to let his breath expel in a relieved puff. ‘You have chosen wisely, St John.’
* * *
Miranda waited politely as Mrs Winslow and Polly examined the gown. ‘But it’s grey.’ Mrs Winslow’s disappointment was obvious.
‘It seemed a serviceable choice at the time.’ Miranda’s excuse was as limp as the lace that trimmed the gown.
‘My dear, common sense is all well and good, but this is your wedding day. Have you nothing more appropriate? This gown appears more suitable—’
‘For mourning?’ Miranda supplied. ‘Well, yes. My own dear mother...’
Had been dead for thirteen years. But what Mrs Winslow did not know would not hurt her. And if the death seemed more recent, it explained the dress. The gown in question had, in fact, been Cici’s mourning dress, purchased fifteen years’ distant, after the death of a Spanish count. While full mourning black might have been more appropriate, Cici had chosen dove grey silk, not wanting to appear unavailable for long. It had taken some doing to shorten the bodice and lengthen the skirt to fit Miranda, but they’d done a creditable job by adding a ruffle at the hem.
‘Your mother? You poor dear. But you’re well out of mourning now?’
‘Of course. But I’ve had little time to buy new things.’ Or money, she added to herself.
‘Well, now that the duke will be looking after you, I’m sure that things will be looking up. And for now, this must do.’ Mrs Winslow looked at her curiously. ‘Before your mother died...did she...?’ She took a deep breath. ‘There are things that every young woman must know. Before she marries. Certain facts that will make the first night less of a...a shock.’
Miranda bit her lip. It was better not to reveal how much she knew on the subject of marital relations. Cici’s lectures had been informative, if unorthodox, and had given her an unladylike command of the details. ‘Thank you for your concern, Mrs Winslow.’
‘Are you aware...there are differences in the male and the female...?’
‘Yes,’ she answered a little too quickly. ‘I helped...nursing...charity work.’ Much could be explained by charity work, she hoped.
‘Then you have seen...’ Mrs Winslow took a nervous sip of tea.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Well, not good, precisely. But at least you will not be surprised.’ She rushed on, ‘And the two genders fit together where there are differences, and the man plants a seed and that is where babies come from. Do you understand?’
Cici had made it clear enough, but she doubted that Mrs Winslow’s description was of much use to the uninitiated. ‘I...’
‘Never mind,’ the woman continued. ‘I dare say the duke knows well enough how to proceed. You must trust him in all things. However, the duke...is a very—’ words failed her again ‘—vigorous man.’
‘Vigorous?’
‘In his prime. Robust. And the men in his family are reported to have healthy appetites. Too healthy, some might say.’ She sniffed in disapproval.
Miranda looked at the vicar’s wife with what she hoped was an appropriately confused expression, and did not have to feign the blush colouring her cheeks.
‘And the baby that his first wife was delivering when she died was said to be exceptionally large. A difficult birth. He will, of course, insist on an heir. But if his demands seem excessive after the birth of the first child...many women find...a megrim, perhaps. A