When You Wish Upon a Duke (14 page)

“That was fast,” she said breathlessly, pushing pins back into place and smoothing her bodice.

“Too fast,” he agreed, watching her dress with the same hunger he’d just demonstrated while kissing her. She liked it, too. It wasn’t the way that he looked at her
when he admired her gown or was happy to see her. Instead it was rather a wolfish look, as if he longed to devour her, and in turn it made her feel wantonly warm and wolfish, too. She leaned forward and kissed him quickly, just to let him know how sorry she also was that they’d had to stop.

“
Much
too fast,” she whispered ruefully, picking up her posy. “I suppose I’m ready.”

For another long moment, he did nothing but study her, then sighed.

“Oh, yes, we’re ready,” he said. With obvious reluctance, he called to the footman to open the door, climbed out, and turned to offer his hand to Charlotte.

In the full splash of late afternoon sun, her skirts were even more mussed and crushed than she’d guessed, the rumpled silk loudly proclaiming what she’d been doing with the Duke of Marchbourne.

No, with her
husband
. Surely that would make a difference. They were wed now, and after all, they’d only been doing what married people were supposed to do. There couldn’t be anything shameful or scandalous about that.

Yet when she stepped down before the footman, she couldn’t miss the startled surprise that showed in his eyes for the instant before he recomposed his features. She glanced up at March to find his face every bit as impassive as the footman’s.

Well, then, if that was how he wished this to be, then she would oblige, and pretend along with him that nothing untoward had happened during the short journey from St. Paul’s. In her head, she could hear Aunt Sophronia’s scolding reminder that a gentleman like March expected his wife to behave with honorable decorum, not act like a sluttish mistress. She raised her chin and, with one hand in March’s and the other holding her posy
at her waist, she stepped forward exactly as a duchess should.

Or she would have if she could. As soon as she began to walk, she felt oddly unbalanced. Suddenly she remembered that moment when March had crushed and broken the canes in her left hoop. She glanced down, and saw that while the skirts over her right hip floated gracefully outward, the ones on her left did not, but hung limply, like a sparrow’s broken wing. Without the hoop’s support, the silk drooped and trailed forlornly, and the scattered brilliants stitched to her skirt seemed more to wink slyly than to sparkle.

But she
would
be a duchess. She would ignore it, and as best she could she sailed bravely at March’s side.

She needed to be brave, too. In the short time she’d been in London, she’d never seen Marchbourne House. It rose before them now, dauntingly impressive, an enormous long building of red brick enclosed from the street by tall black and gold fences and gates. Here at the portico, she’d only a hasty impression of more chimneys than she could see and more windows than she could count. Ransom Manor could have been dropped here whole into the courtyard and not be missed, and Aunt Sophronia’s house in St. James’s would have been no more than one of the wings. She could just remember the splendor of her parents’ old London house, but even that paled beside this.

“Goodness,” she murmured, holding on more tightly to March’s hand. “This is all very grand.”

“Grand?” He looked up at the house as if seeing it for the first time himself. “Why, I suppose it is. I never give it much thought.”

“But it’s your house.”

“One of them, yes,” he said evenly. “I’ve four others besides. You’ll see them all in time. As duchess, you’ll oversee them now as the new mistress.”

Charlotte stared upward, her lace kerchief drifting back from her head as she leaned back to try to see the roof. Aunt Sophronia had explained to her that her new responsibilities would include running the duke’s vast household, and that in addition to making sure things were arranged to the duke’s tastes, she’d also have dozens of servants who would look to her for supervision and guidance, and that wasn’t including all the tenants and their families who lived and worked the duke’s properties. Charlotte had believed herself eager for the challenge. She’d often helped Mama with the housekeeping books at Ransom, and their few servants had always seemed more like family than staff to be managed. To be sure, that was because of Mama’s tender heart, and a ducal household would be much larger, but the basics surely must be the same. Yet how could she ever have imagined anything on this scale?

“You lived here alone?” she asked incredulously, staring up at the vast house. “All this just for you?”

“I’m never alone,” March said. “There are the servants, and I often have friends visiting. But if one considers this as my home, then yes, I suppose I do live alone. Or did. Now it will be your home as well.”

She didn’t answer, not aloud. How could such an enormous, chilly place ever be her home? It wasn’t even a house. It was a palace, and wistfully she remembered the comfortably rambling and slightly shabby scale of Ransom Manor.

“Come inside,” March said, unaware of her misgivings as he led her up the white stone steps. “The staff will be waiting to meet you.”

The tall double doors were held open for them by tall footmen in powdered wigs and plum-colored livery laced with silver. The lanterns in the entry hall had been lit, though they barely began to light the cavernous space. The floor was a checkerboard of black and
white marble, with richly carved woodwork and polished brass everywhere she looked. Huge gloomy portraits stared down from the walls, men on horseback with long flowing hair and women with old-fashioned ruffs around their necks.

But most daunting to Charlotte was the long line of servants waiting to meet her, from the butler and housekeeper at one end to the lowest scullery maid in the distance. They stood as straight as any regiment of soldiers, and though they all wore the white ribbons with sprigs of sweet pea pinned to their breasts in her honor, she still felt not welcomed but thoroughly intimidated.

One by one, March presented each servant to her, and each in turn either bowed or curtseyed with a deferential “Your Grace.” March had no difficulty reciting their names and duties, but he hadn’t presented more than a half dozen before Charlotte, overwhelmed, had already forgotten the names and faces of those who’d come before.

Only one was familiar: Polly, from St. James’s Square. Since she hadn’t had a lady’s maid of her own, Aunt Sophronia had “given” Polly to Charlotte to take with her to Marchbourne House. When Charlotte came to Polly in line, she very nearly hugged her from pure relief. Very nearly, but not, for she’d already determined that March wouldn’t have approved of such a display, and besides, it could have gone ill for Polly below stairs.

Instead she simply waited until Polly had finished her curtsey. “Good day, Polly,” she said. “I’m glad to find you here.”

Polly’s pale cheeks pinked, but she did not smile. “Thank you, Your Grace. I’m most grateful and honored to serve you.”

And that was all that March expected her to say, too.

“Now the parlor maids,” he said, guiding Charlotte
away from Polly to stand before the next well-scrubbed young woman.

At the end of the line, Charlotte nodded and smiled at March as confidently as she could.

“It appears to be a most excellent staff,” she said. “I suspect it will take me a bit of time to learn everyone, but in a week or two, I promise to have the house running to your satisfaction.”

March’s brows rose with surprise. “A week or two?”

“Three at the most,” Charlotte said. “You might not credit it, March, but I am a good household manager, and wise with money.”

His brows rose higher. “That’s not necessary, Charlotte,” he said. “Nor is frugality, not for us.”

She flushed. Of course he’d think that way; he was one of the wealthiest peers in the realm. “Frugality is always necessary, March,” she insisted.

“It’s a kind of virtue, and part of running a house well, no matter how large or small. I’m certain that once I’ve had a chance to look over the accounts, I’ll find all kinds of small economies for us, as well as instances of tradesmen not being as honest as they should be in their reckonings with us.”

“My own wife.” He smiled, all fond indulgence. “I’m glad that you wish to help me in this way, but just as you are no ordinary wife, this is no ordinary household. Perhaps in time, when you are older and more experienced, you may wish to occupy yourself with domestic affairs, but it’s unnecessary at present.”

“But I wish to prove myself useful to you, March, as a wife should.”

“All I ask is that you be happy,” he said, and though he smiled still, it was clear he considered the question settled.

She sighed, for it wasn’t settled at all as far as she was
concerned. She’d simply have to wait until she could prove to March that she wasn’t too young to be useful to him and not simply ornamental.

“Now doubtless you would like to refresh yourself before we dine together,” he continued. “Polly will show you to your rooms, and I’ll join you again in half an hour’s time.”

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, his gaze never leaving hers. Perhaps bookkeeping and household accounts could wait. There were other, more interesting ways she could please her new husband, weren’t there? As his lips lingered on her hand, a fresh little ripple of desire shivered through her, and she grinned.

“Only half an hour, March,” she whispered. “Until then.”

Charlotte followed Polly up the staircase and down a long, echoing hallway. She’d never been in a place like Marchbourne House. Through the open doors, she saw beautiful rooms filled with valuable paintings and furnishings, yet not a soul within, like a haunted palace. She couldn’t imagine how March could bear to live in such silence, and she resolved that they must fill these empty rooms with friends and acquaintances to give them life.

And children. She hoped she and March would have many children, and not just the required sons, either. She had always loved having sisters, and she knew her mother believed that only her children had kept her from losing her wits entirely when their father died. Now Charlotte in turn wanted to fill this huge, echoing house with the sounds of laughing children at play, and as soon as possible, too.

“These are your rooms, ma’am,” Polly said, showing her into the last door on the hall. “I was told that these have always been the duchess’s quarters. Her Grace the late dowager duchess—His Grace’s mother—fancied things brought clear round from China, and that’s how everything’s still done now. Of course His Grace expects you to change it to suit yourself. This is your receiving room.”

Charlotte caught her breath. She wouldn’t dare change
anything, for surely this must be one of the most beautiful rooms she’d ever seen. The room filled one corner of the house, with tall windows on two sides and a view of the sun setting on Green Park. The curtains had yet to be drawn for the night, but because the daylight was nearly done, there was a cheerful fire in the grate and the candles had been lit, both in the silver candle stands and in the chandelier overhead. Green silk patterned with swooping gold and pink cranes was hung on the walls, and a pair of large red and gold lacquer cabinets, open to display a collection of porcelain figures, flanked the chimney.

There was a lady’s desk before the window and several well-cushioned armchairs, and bouquets of fresh flowers perfumed the air. The flowers again were all bridal white, and Charlotte’s heart swelled when she thought how March must have ordered those for her sake, too.

“In here is your dressing room, ma’am,” Polly continued, showing Charlotte into a smaller chamber lined with chests of drawers and cabinets and a large, gold-framed looking glass. Swiftly Polly opened and shut the drawers to show that Charlotte’s new clothes had already been unpacked and put away. A washstand stood to one side behind a tall, black-lacquered screen, and a lace-draped mahogany dressing table and bench were arranged before the window for the best light.

“And this last room, ma’am, is your bedchamber,” Polly said. The walls were hung with more of the same pale green silk, with an enormous, opulent bed, crowned by a deep tester suspended from the ceiling and hung with embroidered curtains.

“The housekeeper called that bed by its French name, ma’am,” Polly said proudly, as if by being Charlotte’s maid these rooms and their contents now belonged to her as well. “It’s a
lit à la duchesse
, and she said it’s the only one like it in all London.”

But Charlotte wasn’t listening. Instead she was standing before the fireplace, drawn to the life-sized portrait that hung over it. It was clearly March as a boy, perhaps of eleven or twelve, and a beautiful boy at that. His cheeks were still childishly round, his dark hair long and falling over his shoulders. He was dressed in an informal version of a gentleman’s suit, with his waistcoat exotically patterned to mimic a leopard’s skin. His pose was studied, and he stood with one elbow leaning on a broken marble column, with more classical ruins behind him.