A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle (123 page)

“
Fine.”

“
Fine? Is that your
acceptance of my terms?” He would never understand this woman. Not
in a lifetime of trying.

“
Yes.” She picked up her
cat and headed out the door to his waiting carriage.

Splendid. Now he would have that
lifetime to try.

He only wished she didn’t look quite
so squeamish at the prospect.

~ * ~

And so she was damned for the next
eternity. Drat, how had she allowed any of this to
happen?

Jane stared out the window of the
carriage as London passed her by. Or perhaps she was passing London
by. She didn’t know, nor did she particularly care.

What mattered at the moment was that
she was on the way to her wedding.

To Peter.

The bloody Duke of
Somerton.

Good gracious, what a pickle she was
in.

“
Are you terribly upset
with me?” asked Sophie, seated next to her on the bench. They rode
alone, making their way to Jane’s wedding...though it felt more
like a sentencing.

“
You promised you would
help me.” Jane’s voice sounded flat, emotionless, even to her own
ears.

“
I know you may not see it
that way, but I really have helped you.” Her friend—no, her
sister-in-law—fiddled with the lace overlay of her imperial green
gown. “Peter is right.”

“
Then why did you encourage
me? Why did you tell me the scandal would pass over and no one
would care?” She hated having such an accusatory tone. “Why didn’t
you stop me from leaving? You should have convinced me to
stay.”

“
It was selfish on my
part,” Sophie said.

“
Selfish. Ha.”

“
No. It was. Look at me.”
She waited until Jane finally complied with her request. “I wanted
to believe that you could do it—that you could become a woman of
independent means. Because if you could do it, then I could, as
well.”

“
Why would you want such a
thing? You have everything. You are Lady Sophia Hardwicke, the
toast of the
ton
,
the most eligible lady in the marriage mart. Gentlemen of means
practically fall at your feet and beg you to marry
them.”

“
Which is precisely what I
don’t want! Why should I be forced to marry some addle-brained
marquess, just because we would make a good connection? Or because
he has seven estates? Or because it would make Mama happy? What of
my happiness?”

What, indeed? And what of
Jane’s?

The white kid gloves Jane wore
constricted her hands, and she flexed her fingers to restore
circulation. The gloves belonged to Charlotte, whose hands and arms
were daintier, more delicate than her own. But Cousin Henrietta had
insisted she wear white to go with her white satin and lace gown
and white slippers. White everything. It all made her feel like a
giant, white cloud.

“
I apologize,” Sophie said.
“I shouldn’t upset you.”

“
Would you marry for
love?”

Sophie sighed. “Yes. Or
for...”

“
Or for what?” This was
certainly an unexpected response.

“
Nothing. Never mind. But
you—you are marrying for love, Jane.”

“
Fat lot of good that will
do me,” she mumbled. Yes, she could admit to loving the man.
Actually, she loved him so much it ached in her stomach. But he
said nothing of love—only of duty, responsibility. Would it be
enough that she loved Peter without being loved in
return?

Only time would tell.

That love—that inexplicable desire to
be with him, even when he aggravated her almost beyond
tolerance—had eventually convinced her to marry him. Now she had to
make the best of the situation.

Maybe someday he would come to love
her. If he could recognize that love meant more than obligation,
that is.

The carriage pulled to a stop before
the church, and Jane took a deep breath. Today, she was a bride.
Today, she would become a duchess. Terrifying thought,
that.

Peter climbed down from his barouche
and moved to assist her to disembark the carriage. The time had
arrived.

His strong hand held hers in a
vise-like grip. “Ready?”

No tender words of romance. She
shouldn’t have expected any. The only response she could muster was
a single nod.

He led her up the steps and down the
aisle to stand before the rector. The Hardwickes filed in behind
them, taking their seats in the pews. No one else was
present.

Standing before the minister, the only
thought in Jane’s mind was how terribly odd it was to marry in the
afternoon. Her father had not performed an afternoon wedding at the
vicarage in Whitstable for almost as many years as she could
remember.

And then they all stared at her until
she said, “I will.”

I will
. She’d done it.

Jane Matthews was no longer Jane
Matthews, but Jane Hardwicke, Duchess of Somerton. Mother would be
ecstatic.

She, however, felt ready to cast up
the contents of her stomach.

~ * ~

Jane said her goodnights to the female
members of her new family as they made their way up the
stairs.

Earlier in the evening, Mama Hardwicke
had told Jane that she and the girls would move to a new lodging as
soon as something suitable was arranged. The newlyweds would need
time to themselves. In the meanwhile, they would all make
themselves as scarce as possible in the house.

Jane hadn’t been worried about that,
at all. Actually, she’d prefer they stay.

No one in the family worried about
Neil. He was rarely at home any time they would see him, anyway.
For that matter, he hadn’t even attended the wedding ceremony. Jane
was told he’d headed off to the country and likely wouldn’t return
for at least a week or more.

So Jane was now very much alone in
Hardwicke House with her husband—at least it felt that way—and had
no idea what she was supposed to do with the man.

In the library, Peter seemed content
to continue sipping from his port in an armchair and reading the
book he held close to the flame. She sat on the sofa near the
hearth, running her fingers through Mr. Cuddlesworth’s fur and
wondering what she should do next. It would all be so much easier
if he would simply tell her what he wanted, give her some
direction.

After all, this entire marriage sham
had been his idea.

He turned the page and read some
more.

She cleared her throat, hoping to gain
his attention. That tactic failed.

Her husband turned more pages, and
still she sat.

The silence would soon drive her to
distraction. “What are you reading?” she asked.

He glanced up momentarily. “A book of
proverbs.” Then almost immediately, he returned his attention to
the book.

“
Oh. I see.”

But she really didn’t see at all.
Didn’t he intend to bed her tonight? Drat the man, she had been
both dreading it and anticipating it since the moment he mentioned
her primary duty as a wife this afternoon. The least he could do
was to get on with matters.

Perhaps he simply needed a stronger
hint.

Jane let out a robust yawn and
stretched her arms. “Oh dear, I’m growing quite tried. I believe I
shall head up to bed.”

“
Rest well,” he said with a
cheery smile. “I’ve had your belongings moved to the duchess’s
suite. Meg will be waiting to assist you. I’ve already ordered a
bath drawn for you.”

“
Of course. I see.” This
didn’t sound like he intended to join her. And did he think her
incapable of requesting her own bath? “Well, I suppose I’ll be off
then. Should I expect you soon?”

His eyes remained fully trained on his
proverbs and his right hand stroked his chin. “No. I won’t retire
for a while yet. Good night.”

Good
night
? “You will not...er, I mean won’t you
require...” Surely she was mistaken. Wasn’t she?

“
Jane, I’m not the boor you
insinuated earlier. We both know you only married me because you
were essentially forced into it by circumstance. You didn’t want to
be my duchess by any stretch of the imagination. I already have an
heir, so there’s no rush to fill my nursery.” He looked her full in
the eye. “When you’re ready, you may come to me. But I won’t bed
you simply because I’m allowed to as your husband.”

“
Oh.” Well. That was rather
unexpected.

Peter set his book on the table and
moved to stand before her. “Good night.” With a hand gently against
the nape of her neck, he pulled her close and kissed her. It was
soft. Chaste. Teasing.

She wanted more. But she most
certainly didn’t want him to know that she wanted more.

“
Good night,” she said. She
picked up Mr. Cuddlesworth’s basket and backed away.

Halfway up the stairs, she tasted a
faint hint of port on her lips.

He’d granted her a reprieve. How
unexpected.

If only she was glad for
it.

Chapter
Eighteen

Allowing Jane to walk away from him
had nearly killed Peter. But it had been the only decent thing he
could do.

Of course he was her husband—he could
bed her at will, irrespective of her wishes on the matter. That was
his right. Seeing her embarrassment earlier in her shop, when she’d
asked him about such a prospect, had convinced him of her
ill-prepared state of mind for nighttime activity.

Also weighing on his decision to give
her time was the fact that she clearly abhorred the idea of being
his wife. Christ, she’d gone so far as to run away in the middle of
the night in order to avoid that very fate.

If they were to have any chance at a
reasonably happy marriage, as he intended, then he had to allow
Jane to proceed at her own pace. Coercing her into the marriage
itself had already placed a blight upon her image of
him.

So, until she was ready and willing to
seek him out for coupling, he would wait.

Peter already knew he could survive in
a near-sexless marriage. Mary had despised the act. She had only
willingly agreed to it for the purpose of procreation. As soon as
she was with child, she’d made it clear she wanted nothing more to
do with him.

He could have taken a mistress—he’d
thought about such a prospect on more than one occasion—but in his
mind, that would mean he had failed.

Since the day Mary had informed him
she was carrying a second child—his sweet Sarah—Peter had been all
but celibate. There had been an occasion or two, after her passing,
that he’d made use of the pleasures freely offered by a
widow.

But there was never any sort of
relationship. No expectation upon him. Just a mutual give and
take.

With his wife, there would undoubtedly
be expectation. And—he hoped—a relationship.

So, Peter would wait. He would give
Jane time and space, and he intended to make himself as agreeable
to her as he possibly could. He would grant her the independence
she so desperately sought, by allowing her to choose. In the
meanwhile, she wouldn’t have to lift a finger in his home—servants
would see to many of her needs, and he would personally take care
of a number of others.

Jane would want for nothing. He had
already promised her that, but more important in his mind, he’d
sworn it to himself. Peter intended to work so hard at this
marriage that she had no choice but love him. She must.

He couldn’t fail. Not
again.

Another loveless marriage was simply
out of the question.

~ * ~

Jane felt rather inconsequential in
her new surroundings. Her new bedchamber was easily three times the
size of her previous lodgings at Hardwicke House, and the attached
dressing room would house an army of maids.

And that was just
her
part of the master
suite. On the other side of the dressing room sat an enormous
sitting area, which must be connected to Peter’s dressing room and
private chamber.

The sheer size of it all left her
feeling more alone than ever before, particularly after the
upstairs maids had removed her bath and vacated the chamber,
leaving Jane alone with Meg.

“
Your Grace, I’m glad we
added the rosehip to your bath water this evening.” They sat near
the fire, and the lady’s maid was brushing Jane’s hair from behind.
A silken wrapper was Jane’s only covering after her bath. “It’s a
lovely scent, ma’am.”

She’d attempted to tell Meg not to
bother with such an extravagance; it wouldn’t matter tonight, since
Peter wouldn’t be demanding anything of her. Jane’s fate for her
wedding night was to spend it alone.

“
You needn’t bother with
formalities, Meg. The idea of being called
Your Grace
doesn’t sit well with me.”
Just how, precisely, had she ended up a duchess? The events of the
last twenty-four hours were all blurring together into a giant
cloud in her mind.