The Seduction of a Duke (13 page)

He would wait. That was the plan. Time was his friend in this. She could only conceal her condition for a limited period. He would wait.

Yet her lamp burned on, teasing him with that little sliver of light. She was awake, studying his prestigious lineage. She might have a question. She might welcome an interruption. The more he thought it, the more he determined she wanted—no, needed—an interruption. He slipped a robe over his shoulders, then slowly opened the connecting door without a warning knock.

She glanced up, startled. Inexplicably, a flush tinged her cheeks as she closed a slim black volume and slid it near a small stack of books to her right. He noticed the lineage volume sat on a table more than an arm’s reach away.

“I’m sorry, did I disturb your slumber, Your Grace?” she asked, fidgeting with the flimsy cover that did nothing to hide the lace that accentuated her curves.

He cautiously moved forward, his eyes drawn to the hinted valley between her breasts. “I saw your light and I wondered . . .”

Damnation! As if he wasn’t already having difficulty lifting his gaze, the chit slowly rolled her shoulders allowing those comely denizens to thrust out over the desktop much like a figurehead on the bow of a whaling ship. Moisture fled his throat. His fingers ached, anxious to prove that her womanly assets were not carved from wood, but were rather soft, firm, warm . . .

“Your Grace?” She intervened, interrupting his thoughts. “You wondered . . . ?”

His fisted hands stabbed at the pockets of his silk robe, his gaze still fixed to her comely chest. “I wondered if I could be of assistance in your studies?”

The question startled her, or perhaps it was his continuing stare. Her flush deepened, then spread across the exposed skin of her chest. He dragged his gaze upward, but she glanced away, inexplicably concerned with straightening the small pile of books.

“I had supposed that you were following my suggestion in preparation for your introduction into British society, but I see that I was mistaken.”

She rose from behind the desk, allowing the sheer covering of her peignoir to slip off her shoulder and puddle on the floor. His cock thickened and brushed his thigh in its ascent. My God, she was beautiful and brash in the way of Americans. Though she stood as stiff as his eager cock, there was little doubt of her intent. She was offering herself to him. Suddenly, it didn’t matter that they were strangers. She was desirable, willing, and his. Against his better judgment, he stepped forward.

“I was merely writing thank-you notes for the wedding gifts, Your Grace. Maman prepared a journal listing, you see. But if the light bothers you . . .”

It was a lie. A pen with a dry nib lay on the desk blotter, the cap to the tiny jar of ink securely fastened. She may have been writing earlier. Indeed, some correspondence lay stacked on another corner of the desk, but she was not writing when he entered the room.

Her gaze was direct, it was just not focused on him. She stood rooted to the spot, as if tied to a tree; a sacrifice offered to appease a demanding dragon.

He winced a bit at his role in that scenario, but he paused to wonder. Was she using his lust to distract him? What had she been doing in the middle of the night, if not studying lineage? Why had she felt the need to lie about it? His gaze slipped to the correspondence, his eyes quickly scanned the top note.

He couldn’t fashion the rest from this distance, but it didn’t matter. Seeing the other man’s name cooled his desires as if he’d been doused in the Atlantic. She’d been writing her lover, the father of her unborn child.

The seductive shadows that flickered across the lace no longer interested him. She bent to douse the lamp. It was just as well. The man’s name served as a reminder to stick to his original plan.

“Good night, Your Grace.” Her voice drifted to him in a sultry tone that he’d not associated with her before. He could hear a smile in her voice almost as if the four words were an invitation rather than a salutation. Of course, she wanted him in her bed, he reminded himself. She needed a good shake in the sheets to cover proof of her condition. He congratulated himself on being wise to her trick. He had almost succumbed to her charms.

“Good night,” he replied, backing to his room. Was this to be the way of it? She would tempt him to cover proof of her past indiscretion and he would resist? He must resist.

He cursed beneath his breath. Who would have imagined a simple arranged marriage could prove so complicated?

Sooner or later she would no longer be able to hide the truth of her condition and on that day she would truly learn the price paid for this game. He swore it.

BRIDGET’S JOURNAL WAS A GODSEND. OTHERWISE, Fran would never have anticipated that the thrusting forward of one’s chest could rob a man, such as the Duke, even briefly of speech. She’d noted the direction of his gaze. With the journal’s assistance, she’d be breeding in no time. With that goal in mind, she greeted Mary with an unusual request.

“You wish me to lower all of them?” Mary’s voice plaintively indicated what she thought of modifying the necklines on Francesca’s wardrobe.

“You can sew, can’t you?” In her haste to follow the wondrous advice of the journal, she’d forgotten to consider Mary’s skills. She couldn’t recall ever asking that Mary alter a garment before. Normally, she would just purchase a new one.

“Of course, I can sew, miss, but . . . how low did you wish me to make them?”

Fran drew an imaginary line across her chest.

Mary blanched, “Down to the berries?”

Fran’s expression must have relayed her ignorance, as Mary lowered her voice and explained.

“They call them that because of how they look. All pink and pebbled, just like berries—you see.”

“Oh.” Fran smiled, finding it interesting that both Fatima and Mary used sweet, edible references to describe that particular female anatomy. Perhaps it was more than coincidence. Perhaps . . . a flash of heat jolted through her chest.

“Are you sure you want them that low, miss?”

Fran tried out her best modern, knowing woman smile. “I’m hoping to attract the Duke’s interest.” His interest certainly piqued when she rolled her shoulders back last night. He couldn’t seem to take his gaze off her “berries,” even though she hadn’t had occasion to perfume and powder them. Yes, a little more of that sort of attention and she’d be with child in no time.

Mary glanced toward the bed, a smile blooming on her lips. “I’m glad he came to his senses, then. I’m sure you’ll continue to hold his interest no matter how you dress.” She stood in the middle of the room, her hands on her hips. “All your evening gowns show off your bosoms. I can’t alter your walking suits and day dresses to that extreme.” For a brief moment, Fran imagined her mother’s censure in Mary’s expression. “You know full well, Miss Winthrop, that exposing that much skin during the day in public just wouldn’t be proper.”

Mary was right, though Fran was loathe to admit it. After Bedford left her room last night, she had visions of looking so “succulent” in the mornings that she needn’t worry about meeting the public. In fact, she would prefer to be confined to her stateroom so as to avoid meeting them, no matter how appropriate her attire.

“Besides,” Mary continued. “Sometimes you can create that kind of interest in a man even if your neckline brushes your chin. It’s a matter of letting him know what’s under the dress, if you know what I mean.”

“Under the dress? Why would a man be interested in bustles and crinolines?”

Mary sighed, apparently losing patience with Fran’s lack of understanding. She dragged a hand down the front of her apron. “Under the dress. Sometimes if a man knows how you look in your smalls, he imagines you attired just so, no matter what you wear over top.”

“I see,” Fran said, and indeed she did. Mary’s counsel sounded remarkably like Fatima’s advice on the value of attire for advertising. She glanced at Mary with new appreciation. Did everyone know these rules of seduction, except her?

Mary rummaged through the few unpacked garments for appropriate attire. The Duke had requested that they take a train to New York City, rather than the shorter journey across the water. Though she had no say in the decision, the result pleased her. Travel by her father’s railcar was far more private than public display on the Fall River ferry.

Mary removed a dark blue traveling suit for the day’s departure. “Now my sister, Pauline, she has a red corset that’s as bright as a sunset. My mother says it’s a sign that she’s going straight to the devil, but it’s something a man isn’t likely to forget, that’s the truth.”

Not likely to forget . . . Fran mulled over that possibility. All her corsets had been purchased in New York, all her plain white and ivory corsets—trimmed with satiny ribbons and fancy lace. None of them were the color of a bright sunset and certainly none of them were unforgettable.

“Oh, no, Miss Winthrop,” Mary gasped. “You have that scheming look in your eye again. You’re a legal married woman now. It’ll do no good for you to start planning an escape.”

“An escape?” Fran smiled. “I assure you, Mary, I wasn’t planning an escape.” Perhaps a capture, she thought, but not an escape. “I was just thinking about what you said. An unforgettable corset might be just the thing I need.”

She glanced about the room for a piece of paper, her gaze briefly touching on her letter to Randolph. She opened her jar of ink, dipped the nib of a pen, and scratched out an envelope addressed to Randolph Stockwell in care of the law firm, before starting a second message on another piece of paper. “Stewarts Retail Emporium maintains my measurements on file. Could you send this telegram before we leave for the train?”

“Yes, miss.”

“I’m asking them to send an unforgettable corset”—she paused and smiled at Mary before continuing to scratch out her instructions—“to the SS
Republic
in my name.” She straightened. “Then we’ll see if the Duke has a concern for what’s under the dress.”

With Mary’s assistance, Fran began to dress in the dark blue traveling suit. Given the privacy provided by her father’s private railcar, no one would see her beyond Bedford and the traveling servants. In light of her recent experimentation, she chose not to wear the modest handkerchief linen fichu with fancy cutwork that she’d normally button around her neck and tuck inside the lapels of the jacket. Instead she covered her chest with perfume and powder before buttoning the jacket down the front of her.

Fran could feel Mary’s disapproval as she pinned her hair in place.

“Only the Duke will see me in father’s private railcar,” Fran explained. “My evening dress exposes more than this jacket.”

Mary still scowled. “Evening is evening and day is day, miss.”

“There’s a purpose in my actions, Mary. I know what I’m doing.”

She seemed unconvinced.

Fran sighed. She didn’t owe Mary an explanation, but they’d been together for so long, she would have liked her approval. “Tomorrow, I promise to wear every item that you lay out, but for today let me be as I am.”

Mary replied with a curt nod, then lifted the handwritten note to take to the front desk to be telegraphed.

“Mary, could you post the letter on the desk, as well?” Fran asked. “I don’t wish it to be forgotten in the packing.”

Fran couldn’t exactly hear all of Mary’s mumblings as she headed for the door, but she could have sworn she heard the words “straight to the devil.”

 

 

WILLIAM GRIMACED IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR AS Hodgins, his valet, fitted and brushed the back of his day jacket. Morning had arrived much too quickly.

“Is all as it should be, Your Grace?” Hodgins asked. “Would you prefer the worsted?”

“No. This is fine,” William quickly replied, not anxious to disclose the true reason for his anxiety. Although the brandy he’d consumed after that second confrontation with Francesca was partly to blame, his uncertainty was another. What awaited him on the other side of the door, the sensuous temptress of last evening, or the cold fashion plate from the wedding? He had the unique sense that he had married two distinctly different women, and he wasn’t completely sure which he preferred. They both had a certain appeal, but they both could prove equally disastrous.

“I was just thinking about the trip home,” he improvised with a quick glance to gray skies framed by the window. “I had some . . . difficulty on the trip over.”

Hodgins followed his gaze before offering a sympathetic glance in the mirror. “It was a wise decision to take the train to New York even if it does lengthen the trip to the city. I should not like to be tossed upon an angry sea in that small steamer.”

Hah! William groused to himself. The day could be as clear as glass and he suspected it wouldn’t matter. He was a man who needed solid footing beneath him and he suspected the woman who waited for him in the next room could make even terra firma less so.