Disciplining the Duchess Page 11

  Harmony seemed to shrink within herself, staring at the floor.

  “Are her visits so tedious?” he asked. “Don’t you wish for pretty things?”

  “I— Well, I am grateful—ever so grateful for your generosity—”

  “It is hardly generosity. Every husband clothes his wife.”

  “You ought to have had a better wife,” she burst out, taking her hand from his. “Please, Your Grace, I don’t wish for all these…” She gestured down at her new gown. “All these stylish and fanciful things. Really, a plain style will do better for me.”

  “So you might disappear at my side? Become invisible?” He seized her hand again, turning to face her on the patterned divan. “Look at me if you please.” After a hesitant moment, she complied. “You cannot believe that this marriage shall be averted now, at this late date?”

  Her eyes skimmed away, but he tightened his hand and she drew them back again.

  “There are but weeks until our nuptials. Workers have been hired, orders have been placed. Whole blocks of rooms at St. James and Courtland Manor are being refurbished for your use. The engagement has been announced in the papers and spread in whispers through every salon in town. You must set your mind to the things you cannot change.”

  She held his gaze a long moment. He tried to impart a sense of authority and kindness in the face of her fears. He understood she didn’t want this marriage, as insulting as that was. He didn’t want it either in an abstract sense, but more practically, he enjoyed her and was prepared to make the best of things.

  “You are speechless,” he said when the silence spun out.

  He saw a spark of rebellion in her eyes. “There is not much I am allowed to say, is there? Except that I will go along with what you and everyone else insists I must do?”

  “I insist because you will be irreparably harmed otherwise.”

  “My reputation will be harmed. I will be fine and you will do much better without me.”

  “We shall be married,” he countered. “And all will be well.”

  His fiancée gave a great shuddering sigh as if she were being forced to marry a mollusk. “My father has written. He will arrive in town soon to stay until the wedding. He will contribute what he can to the preparations.”

  “He needn’t contribute anything.” Court wished she would smile again, as she had when he first arrived. “Why are you so cross?”

  “A porter has delivered forty gowns so far,” she said grimly. “Actually, forty-two.”

  “You will need twice that or more for an entire season.”

  “But the expense—”

  “It is nothing.”

  Her gaze fell to his lips, then up again. Torment. She fretted over gowns when all he wanted to do was kiss her.

  “Lady Darlington said you knew.” She looked at his lips again, the little tease, before her gaze meandered back to his. “She said the whole time we were at the wall, you knew you would have to marry me.”

  “Yes.”

  Her brows drew together, tiny thinking lines. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you…”

  “Warn you?” he asked. “You weren’t of a mind to listen. You wanted to go to Newcastle and wouldn’t be persuaded otherwise. Once I took you into the carriage, I accepted that I would have to marry you. You left me no other choice.”

  “You could have let me walk,” she said stubbornly.

  “No, I couldn’t.” Now he was the one to stare at her lips as he gathered his thoughts. “You spoke to me once of fate, and how we might grasp at chances. I wonder if I wasn’t doing that, now that I look back.”

  “I think you were doing what you felt you ought to do.”

  “What I had to do. You were my fate. An inescapable consequence.” She looked stricken at that idea. He ran the tip of one finger down her delicate cheekbone, ignoring the chaperone’s faint tsk. “Either way, the outcome is the same. You are going to be my wife. Fate or chance, it makes no matter now. Things will seem strange between us for a while but it won’t be so forever. I am fond of you and you seem to have no great aversion to me, as much as it galls you to become my wife.”

  “I doesn’t gall me. It’s only... I’m just worried that—”

  “That you will make a poor sort of duchess?” he provided bluntly.

  Her gaze shied away from his. “Will you spank me after we are wed?”

  Ah, did this have something to do with her misgivings? Court glanced over at Mrs. Jenkins, feeling a blush rise beneath his cravat even though the servant was too far away to hear them. “I suppose that will depend on whether you are good or bad,” he said in a low voice.

  “I have never been a wife, or a duchess for that matter. What if I don’t know what is good or bad?”

  “That is one of the purposes of a spanking, to teach appropriate behavior.” God blast it, just like that, his cock was about to burst. The little minx. She didn’t mean to tease; she really wanted to know if he would spank her as he had at the Newcastle inn.

  And yes, he would.

  “I promise I will not be a beast and abuse you,” he said, leaning close. “I won’t cuff you and yank you about if you are not the perfect wife. I shall never be brutal and impatient with you.”

  “Well, that’s a relief, because I won’t be perfect. I just know it.” She gave him a pained look. “I’m sure I’ll deserve a spanking now and again. Perhaps…perhaps that pleases you.”

  How to explain what he himself barely understood? “It will please both of us to know the way of things,” he said after a moment. “To know what is expected from either side.”

  “I have never really lived like that. I have lived in a very haphazard way.”

  “Have you enjoyed that sort of life?”

  She was silent a while, mulling over his question. “Not always.”

  “I believe a clear system of expectations and consequences will suit us both in this marriage.”

  Her hand fluttered in his as she gazed into his eyes. “You mean, spankings when I am bad?”

  “More or less.”

  He watched as she worked through this proposal in her mind. “I… I suppose I agree to that. I fear I shall make a terrible muck of your life, but with your guidance…perhaps…”

  “With my guidance I believe you will be a much happier woman.”

  She gave him a look of such vulnerability that he ached to draw her into his arms. She probably did not understand yet that discipline would not always feel like something she wanted, or needed. That knowledge would develop in time, just like the closeness between them.

  “I will try to be good,” she said softly, “so you needn’t spank me too often.”

  “I am sure you will try very hard, my darling.” Either way he would be pleased with her. The darlings, the dears, they came so easily now. The Duke of Courtland, who was not romantic or sentimental in the least, feared very much he was falling in love with Miss Harmony Barrett. “You must not be afraid. You are not to worry about anything,” he repeated, stroking her trembling fingers. “Anything at all.”

  Chapter Nine: Discipline

  Thanks to the talented Mrs. Oliver, Harmony felt assured she looked every inch the future duchess as His Grace squired her through throngs of promenading ladies and gentlemen at Hyde Park. Mrs. Jenkins had helped her dress in an elegant amethyst and ivory striped afternoon dress, along with a matching fur-lined cape and tasteful lavender beribboned cap. Her blonde hair had been tamed into a pretty upsweep by the hard-faced woman, framed by some artful curls at her temples. For once, the frowning housekeeper had almost seemed pleased.

  Harmony hoped she pleased the duke. She would never be described as lithe or graceful but with Mrs. Oliver’s gowns, she was at least in the latest fashion. Over the weeks of their courtship she had come to believe he cared for her, even if she’d never believe herself fit to be his wife. If he was going to be stubborn and insist they go through with this ill-conceived marriage, what was she to do?

&nbs
p; He drew her close as they strolled through the crowded lanes, keeping her arm linked through his. What a fine figure he made in his tailored great coat and high hat. He never minced or pranced about like some of the gentlemen. When he walked, his leather boots sounded steady and measured upon the ground and his capable manner relaxed her. She felt safe with him. When any man dared stare or any woman sneer, he froze them with a glance.

  Gossip continued, and perhaps always would, but in the last weeks it seemed people did less whispering and more smiling. He insisted on escorting her about town, to the theater, the opera, to book stores and art exhibits. She thought she would enjoy being married to such a man, who did not force her to stay at home and pretend to be brainless. But then she’d get a snide look from a passing lady or gentleman and long to be at home, away from the public eye. A duchess! The Duke of Courtland’s wife! It was a ridiculous situation.

  A situation she couldn’t get out of. Not now.

  But she wouldn’t dwell on such thoughts, not walking out in public with him. He nodded to a pair of acquaintances and made a deeper bow to a friend’s wife. How could he feel so at ease and behave with such cool politeness in every situation? She felt she might suffocate in the tumult of chattering, milling people. She tightened her hand on his arm and he looked down at her in sympathy.

  “It’s a crush, isn’t it?”

  She nodded as another couple brushed by them with murmured greetings.

  “This is the place one goes to see and be seen,” His Grace said. “It’s not nearly as crowded now as in summertime.”

  “How do you remember them all, and recall their titles and connections?”

  He shrugged. “It is necessary to remember. You will learn them too, in time. It is not hard if you apply yourself.”

  He made it sound so simple. He also made it sound obligatory. “I shall never get used to such a large social circle,” she said. “Nor such great crowds.”

  “Did your brother never walk with you in the park? Or the young men who courted you during your seasons?”

  “No one courted me.”

  “No one? Surely you exaggerate.”

  What worried her most about His Grace was that he seemed to have no grasp of what a social failure she was. “Did you court many ladies here?” she asked to change the subject.

  “A few.”

  “I imagine you were a dashing suitor.”

  He pursed his lips. “My dear, I only courted one woman with any seriousness and she denied me in the end.”

  Denied him? The Duke of Courtland? “I can hardly believe it,” Harmony said. “She must have been mad to do such a thing.”

  “This from the woman who has repeatedly tried to extricate herself from our betrothal.”

  A flush stole across her cheeks. “We are in a different situation. If you courted this lady honestly, how could she resist your attentions?”

  “You are kind to flatter me, but she fell in love with another. We did…not suit.”

  She and His Grace did not suit either, at least by society’s standards. Harmony felt somber, almost mournful. The duke was bold and wealthy enough to have lived a life full of adventures and romantic relationships—including one that made his voice sound oddly tight.

  “Did you love her terribly?”

  “Harmony,” he murmured.

  “If she was the only one you courted—”

  “In the end, we did not suit,” he said firmly, the edge in his voice warning against further questions. “I am utterly content in my choice of wife.” He squeezed her hand where it rested on his great coat. She believed he was content, the foolish man. He was so certain all would be well, based mainly on his intention that it be so.

  As for her, she was coming to adore him far more than she should. She wanted him in a selfish, breathless way, at least when she listened to the cravings of her heart. But when her mind considered day-to-day life with him…to include marital matters… Well. Husbands and wives shared intimacies she knew very little about, except that they were very intimate. She would be expected to do intimate things with him. She still remembered his commanding kiss in Lady Darlington’s parlor. How shocked she’d been, and yet how intrigued…

  She peeked up at him as he guided her through a particularly dense group of gentlemen and ladies. It was difficult to look at him now, so proper and controlled, and imagine he was the same man who’d taken her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers, and grasped her close and held her right against him as he’d kissed her…

  A throng of young dandies stepped out of their way and they nearly collided with another couple as groups pressed in from both sides. She felt His Grace stiffen. A young woman with large, beautiful eyes and dark hair stared at the duke while the mild looking fellow beside her blushed behind his tawny beard.

  “Your Grace,” said the woman with a slight curtsy. “How wonderful to see you. You look well.”

  “As do you.” His voice sounded as taut as his stance. “Lord Wembley,” he said to acknowledge her husband. “Good to see you both in town.”

  “We hear felicitations are in order,” said the man, his gaze settling on Harmony. Court drew her forward and made the introductions. Lord and Lady Wembley were apparently Hertfordshire neighbors, and the lady a childhood friend. Harmony felt a wave of jealousy. His Grace was affected by this woman. Around them, people stared in that delighted way they had when something awkward was going on. She realized with a shock that this must be the woman who’d rejected his attentions.

  Harmony felt in a panic to get away, but the duke stood and made polite, inane conversation another minute or two, until the crowd made it necessary to bid the couple farewell.

  “Come,” he said, gathering Harmony close. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Let us extricate ourselves from this press and find some fresh air.”

  He led her through milling groups and lines of curricles and carriages to a less populated area of the park. He found a bench on a slight rise and beckoned her to seat herself. She drew her pearl-trimmed slippers beneath her skirts and pulled her cloak closer around her in the chill air of the fall day.

  “Now,” he said with a sigh. “Perhaps we can collect our wits.”

  “Those of us with wits.” She laughed far too loudly at her own joke. Hush, Harmony. Be ladylike. Don’t cackle out silly jests.

  But he was smiling, not frowning. The problem was, his smile looked wistful. She didn’t want to ask but she had to know. “That was her, wasn’t it? The lady you courted. With the dark hair and violet eyes.”

  “Yes, Lady Wembley. Growing up, I knew her as Gwen.” He scratched twice at the side of his neck and his nostrils flared the slightest bit. “You will hear the tale sooner or later, so you might as well hear it from me.”

  “There is a tale?”

  “Only that we were always meant for marriage, but in the end she chose not to accept me. Or rather, she accepted another before I could officially offer my hand. In any case, it was a very public and humiliating jilt.”

  “She is beautiful, but not at all above you. I cannot imagine why she rejected you.”

  He looked over at her, lounging back on one arm. “You are supposed to be jealous, dear. You are supposed to tell me how plain and feckless she is.”

  “I am the one who is plain and feckless. Well…what does feckless mean?”

  He smiled again, but it looked more real this time. “It means unthinking and lacking in vitality. In other words, the exact opposite of you.” His words sparked a pleased, proud joy inside her, even if young ladies weren’t supposed to be too thoughtful and vital. His eyes were warm, laughing almost. How stern he could look, the maddening man, while his eyes laughed the whole while. She wished he would lean closer and kiss her. They were in a secluded area of the park, but she’d lay odds they were being watched by more than a few pairs of eyes. He fussed with the trim at his cuff and looked back at her. “At any rate, handsomeness and beauty is skin deep. A strong marriage isn’t
built on appearances. There must be a foundation of practical matters.”

  “Like similar circumstances and temperament?”

  “Exactly.” He cursed under his breath. “I mean, no. Now you’ve made me use inappropriate language.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace.”

  He tilted her chin up until their gazes met and locked. “You are not sorry in the least, and we both know it. Once we are wed, these impertinent challenges of yours will have consequences. Do you understand?”

  She leaned into the heat of his palm, staring into those eyes that promised as much wickedness as propriety. Perhaps he whispered her name or perhaps she only imagined it, but then his lips pressed to hers in a sweet, chaste kiss. She sighed as he pulled away, and with a small groan he kissed her again, then again. She felt alarm—anyone might see them—but she didn’t want him to stop. What was this terrifying pull between them? When he got too close, when he touched or kissed her, it was as if she lost all sense of reason. He drew away and muttered “Blast,” then scowled at her. “See, you’ve done it again.”

  She touched her lips and grinned. “Is ‘blast’ a curse?”

  “You are a curse. I always behaved impeccably in public until you came along. Let my mother hear that I was pawing you in the park. She will take me apart at the seams.”

  “Your mother seems an overbearing sort,” said Harmony. “I cannot imagine your life as a boy.”

  His jaw tightened. “I understood what was expected of me at a very young age. My mother only bore one child, you see. I was the only chance at continuing the Courtland line.”

  “So they raised you strictly, without allowing any wildness or joy?”

  “No, there was joy. Surely there was. But more of lessons, discipline and expectations. Even on Christmas mornings I did lessons.” He shook his head with a soft laugh. “Funny that I remember that…and whippings in my father’s study. I got my fair share. To this day I can’t step into that room without suffering a chill.”

  “Ah,” said Harmony.

  He frowned with one raised brow. “Ah? What do you believe you’ve discovered about me?”