Confessions From an Arranged Marriage (20 page)

Chapter 19

I
t was terrifying how much correspondence came to a duke. Blake took his seat behind his father's desk and regarded the three piles.

Hetherington, the duke's political secretary for the last two decades, pointed at the largest. “Those are letters of condolence, with my answers, ready for your signature.”

His signature. That he could manage.

“The second pile are congratulations on your accession.”

“Really? That seems a trifle indelicate.”

“I think you will find, sir, that they are phrased
most
delicately.”

“And?” Blake enjoyed Hetherington's dry sense of humor.

“The writers will wait at least another fortnight, a month even, before begging for any favor.”

“Men of tact and refinement.”

“Indeed. I took it upon myself to answer them in my own name, since press of business doesn't allow Your Grace to respond directly.”

“I couldn't have put it better myself. And those?”

“Those are from your fellow dukes, members of the royal family, cabinet ministers, and your father's intimate acquaintance. You will wish to honor them with personal responses.”

It was the last thing Blake wished to do, and the pile, though smaller than the others, still looked dauntingly large. He stretched out his legs and wished he was somewhere else, preferably on horseback. Not for the first time, he considered taking Hetherington into his confidence.

Not yet. Disguise and prevarication were so ingrained he couldn't bring himself to make the confession.

“You're a hard taskmaster,” he said instead. “I hope they'll all appreciate the honor when called upon to decipher my ugly scrawl.” He pointed to the sheaf of foolscap in Hetherington's arms. “What is that? More long, detailed reports for my entertainment?”

The secretary responded with a brief laugh. “As requested, I have made and attached a brief summary of the salient points of each one.”

“Very brief, I trust.”

“But there are a few you will want to read yourself.”

“I doubt it.”

“None of them is long.”

“Splendid. You shall read them aloud to me while I sign these letters.”

Having inked the nib of his pen, he seized the first from the pile, then stopped. Long practice with his signature was no help. He'd never signed himself
Hampton
. Luckily the first letter was easy. Even if it came out backwards it was the same. He inscribed a bold H and let the remainder of the name drift into an illegible squiggle.

“Nearly signed it ‘Blakeney,' ” he commented to the watching Hetherington. “Carry on.”

Practiced as he was at taking in information aurally, he had little difficulty grasping the import of the reports and deciding what to do. It was the way he'd worked with the land steward in Devon and he would set up the same system with Blenkinsop, the secretary who managed business from all the other estates. “Anything else?”

“Just the question of the duchess's pin money.”

“I thought that was covered by her jointure.”

“I meant Your Grace's wife.”

He had a wife, a fact of which he was only too aware.

“The sum specified by her marriage settlement may not be sufficient now.”

“Double it, then. Do you think that will be enough?”

“More than generous. Shall I inform Her Grace?”

“I'll do it.”

He needed to speak to her. He'd stolen into her bed like a secret lover, leaving before dawn. Stricken by overwhelming sorrow, he'd avoided any other source of emotional stress. It was all he could do to present a brave face to those who expected him to behave like a Duke of Hampton, and even more to those who expected him to fail. Once his father was laid to rest he looked for some relief, a sense of finality, and found none. He'd gone to his wife's room because he was desperate for human contact. He intended only to hold her, but he'd been seduced by her scented heat, her tender flesh, and her kisses. Their congress had been quick and uncomplicated. For him a momentous physical relief had triggered an answering release of mental tension. Weeping wasn't something he could recall doing since childhood and he didn't like to think of it now. But deep inside he had to admit the tears had helped, as had her incoherent words of consolation. Before falling into a deep sleep with Minerva in his arms, he'd been in a state of serenity.

Their quarrel in Paris hung heavy on his mind. She'd said some harsh things and what tormented him was how many of them were true. Not about his former mistress; he'd broken with Desirée before the wedding, after the appearance at the theater, which was intended principally to thumb his nose at his father. But when she'd called him ill-prepared for his future role she'd been right. If she only knew how much.

“Where is Her Grace?” he asked his secretary.

“I believe she's receiving in the yellow drawing room.”

Amanda had reported Minerva's sterling work protecting the rest of them from importunity before the funeral. He'd walked by one day and glimpsed her through an open door, fair, slender, and dignified in her clinging black gown. He'd thought at the time she looked too young to be a duchess. But if any visitors thought to take advantage of her inexperience and attempt encroachment they were going to be out of luck. Minerva, Duchess of Hampton, had steel in her and not far beneath the surface. His lips twitched, feeling rusty, as though they hadn't smiled in weeks.

He had no intention of being embroiled with any tiresome callers. He rose and tugged on the bellpull. It rang a little way down the passage where a footman was always on duty to see to the duke's requirements. “As soon as Her Grace is free, ask her to join me,” he bade the servant. And observing a hint of uncertainty in the man's face, added “The young duchess.”

Whatever—or whoever—occupied her, she didn't appear at once. Instead Gideon Louther entered, bursting with news.

“Doggett died!” Gideon announced.

Clearly he expected a reaction. “How sad,” Blake said. “Who the devil is Doggett?”

“The Member for Warfield Castle.”

“Ah.” Even Blake knew the significance of that.

Warfield Castle was a splendid place, a ruined medieval castle set within massive earthwork fortifications dating back to the Dark Ages. In the fourteenth century it had been an important place, doubtless bustling with soldiers, merchants, and monks. These days most of the inhabitants were sheep, but it still, by ancient right, sent two representatives to Parliament. Manchester, England's second largest town, sent none. Warfield Castle was the rottenest of rotten boroughs. The election of its Members of Parliament was in the hands of one man: the Duke of Hampton.

“I have a list of possible candidates. We must think carefully.” Gideon didn't need to explain that this was a major prize. He started throwing out names and discussing their merits and drawbacks.

Blake wasn't much interested. “There's no hurry, is there?”

“Since it seems a general election is imminent, there may be no need to hold a by-election at Warfield.”

“An election? At Warfield Castle?” Minerva entered the room. He had wondered how long she would maintain the restrained, almost meek, demeanor and he had his answer. The opinionated aspect of her personality was back in force. Her high color in marked contrast to her black dress, she brimmed with indignation. “So that a couple of shepherds can send a man to Parliament while big cities send none. It's disgraceful!”

“We're all agreed on that, Duchess,” Gideon said soothingly. “In order to reform Parliament we must have enough votes, you know. And we can't afford to be fussy about where they come from.”

“Is that so, Sir Gideon?”

Gideon took her question at face value. “We shall make sure our new Member for Warfield Castle will vote for the abolishment of his constituency. You needn't worry.”

“Thank you so much for explaining it to me. You've set my mind at rest.”

“Happy to be of service.”

Blake almost laughed at Minerva's barely suppressed irritation and Gideon's earnest obliviousness.

“May I know who the candidates are?” she asked.

“We're still composing the list, Duchess,” Gideon said. “I just heard of the vacancy and brought the news to Hampton.” Blake had tried to get his brother-in-law not to call him Hampton, but in vain. Gideon refused to use the short form of the old title he'd had since birth.

Minerva narrowed her eyes at Gideon. She did not appreciate having such basic facts explained to her, and in such a condescending manner. Doubly irritated by his presence, a disappointment since she'd hoped to finally see her husband alone, she turned to Blake. “You summoned me?”

“I requested the pleasure of your company. Would you be so good, gentlemen? Duchess, please sit down.”

Minerva took the chair next to the desk. As soon as they were alone Blake sat across from her, leaned forward, and put both hands on the desk.

“I'm doubling your pin money,” he said. “You'll need it now.”

Was that all? Her previous allowance was far greater than any sum she could spend. “Thank you,” she said. If Blake wasn't going to bring up Paris, she would have to. As she sought the right words he preempted her.

“I want to apologize.”

“For what?” She felt a little panicked. Was he admitting he had been seeing his mistress? In her heart she'd desperately wanted to believe his denials.

“For last night. I shouldn't have come to you like that.”

“You have the right. You are my husband.”

“I don't want to share your bed because I have the right.”

Minerva touched his hand with the tips of her fingers, all she could reach across the expanse of polished wood and paper. “I'm glad you came. I shouldn't have said what I did in Paris. I'm sorry.”

“You were upset about a woman who should never have even come to your attention. I can only repeat that there is no longer anything between us.”

They fell into an uneasy silence. She was glad to hear him say that, very glad, but the quarrel had ended up being about much more. She couldn't think of a sensitive way to bring up what they'd said about his father. As for her charge that he wasn't up to the task before him, she approached it obliquely.

“If there's anything I can do to assist you with the affairs of the dukedom, please let me know.” She looked longingly at the piles of letters and reports. Who knew what fascinating matters they contained?

“Thank you, Minerva. My father's secretaries are bringing me up to snuff. And Amanda has been helping me.”

Minerva was developing a severe jealousy of her inoffensive sister-in-law. Filling the parliamentary vacancy at Warfield Castle was the kind of down-to-earth politics she loved and there was nothing she'd like better than to hear the list of possibilities and offer her opinion. Her extremely knowledgeable opinion, if she did say it herself.

An unwelcome instinct she couldn't ignore told her this wasn't the moment to charge in and make demands. Their truce was too fragile. She bit her tongue and waited.

“You will have plenty to do learning the duties of a duchess.”

She'd never asked to be a duchess but she hoped she could wield the kind of influence her mother-in-law possessed. It was forcibly brought home to her that such power derived solely from the duke and she could only possess it with his consent. How bitterly disappointing that Blake seemed to have no intention of sharing his business with her. His lack of trust hurt too. Making up their quarrel hadn't returned them to the closeness she'd felt in Paris.

Patience,
she told herself sternly. Patience, alas, had never been numbered among her virtues.

“I must finish reading these papers,” he said with a sigh, “or Hetherington will be after me.”

He stood and walked over to her side of the desk, taking her hand and raising her from her chair. The interview was over. With a courtly nod he brushed his lips over her knuckles, sending a delicious shiver up her arm. A lock of hair flopped over his forehead and she itched to sweep it back. A pang of desire pierced her as she recalled their intimacy of the previous night. While it offended her sensibilities to use seduction rather than logic to achieve her ambitions, it would be no hardship.

If Blake wanted her to learn to be a duchess, then that's what she'd do. She'd be the best duchess the Vanderlin family had ever seen. And there was one particular duty she had in mind.

Chapter 20

A
nother grim family evening concluded with Maria and Anne playing a piano duet. They'd been no more than passable in the nursery and they were pretty bad now. Sitting in the music room, a chamber decorated to impress and awe rather than entertain, Blake discovered a new sympathy for the beasts in the Tower menagerie. Trying to ignore the itch in his feet and the assault on his ears, he let his eyes dwell more pleasurably on his wife. Their exchange that afternoon wasn't exactly a meeting of true minds, but he was ready to put their quarrel behind them. Would she welcome him in her room tonight? She appeared to listen to the music while reading the newspaper upside down on a table. While not the most remarkable of accomplishments, it wasn't a distraction he could achieve.

When the party rose to disperse for bed, she didn't wait for him to bid her good night.

“Shall I see you later, Duke?” she asked, softly enough not to be heard by anyone else.

“If you wish for my company,” he replied cautiously. He couldn't flatter himself their earlier exchange had been more than adequate in repairing their relations. Too much remained unsaid. Minerva was disappointed by his refusal of her assistance, but he couldn't let her observe his struggles to wrestle the sea monster of ducal duty. Not until he had his disguises and evasions firmly in place. As for admitting the truth to her, he'd considered and rejected the idea. One day perhaps, when he'd proven to himself and demonstrated to her that he could manage his role.

“I shall look for you in my room in due course, then,” she said with a sultry smile. He'd never known Minerva to be sultry. It pricked him right up.

A formal conjugal visit being outside his experience, he prepared with special care. With a clean body and smooth face he walked down the passage, glad not to meet a late lingering servant. The point of connecting bedchambers struck him as never before.

He half expected a curtain lecture on rotten boroughs, or an interrogation on his powers of political patronage. Instead she rose at his entrance and offered a tentative smile of welcome. In a simple white nightgown, her hair in shimmering gold ripples over her shoulders, she looked like a princess in a nursery tale, a virgin awaiting a unicorn. She wasn't, after all, far removed from that untouched state. Her beauty sent a message to his already eager cock, though shy and virginal had never been qualities that appealed to him in a woman.

Shyness was not Minerva's prevailing trait, the word termagant better describing her everyday character. But in the present case he was indubitably the expert and it pleased him to lead the way.

Without saying a word he walked over and gathered her close. Her vitality seemed to soak through his dressing robe into his flesh. When she raised her head to him he accepted her unspoken offer. It was a kiss of exploration, of new lovers who don't know each other's ways. Had he bedded her after the wedding, in the hotel in Abbeville, it might have been like this. He would set aside the memory of the fervid first coupling in Paris that had ended so badly, and last night's emotion-thick release, the details of which he could scarcely recall. They could start fresh, but without the shattered maidenhead to spoil her enjoyment.

Despite an aggressive erection, he felt no great urgency. With all the time in the world he caressed her firm little breasts, perfect in size and shape, palming the stiffened peak through fine cloth, her response igniting his passion.

He kissed her until her breathing shortened and her body sent out waves of heat. “Come to bed,” he said, soft and low, then swept her up and carried her to the mattress, kissing her and murmuring praise all the way. “Get under the blankets.”

She obeyed and stared up him with wide curious eyes, her mouth parted in a sensual invitation. He blew out the bedside candle, as he might have on their first night, slipped off his robe, and slid between the cool sheets to join her.

Removing her thin nightgown seemed almost a violation of her innocence. He also found her clothed body against his nakedness incredibly arousing. His bollocks roiled with excitement, his cock strained against her belly. Determined to ensure her pleasure he kissed his way down her neck, causing it to arch into his touch. His hands moved down from her bosom, exploring her through the soft cloth, cupping her covered sex, which thrust into his palm, a physical manifestation of Minerva's demanding personality that made him softly chuckle.

Finally he pulled her skirt to the waist and sought the heated cradle. A finger found her quim damp and slick, her clitoris hard and swollen beneath his thumb. Her climax took some time, his own somewhat less. As he moved inside her she put her arms around him and offered him kisses, but didn't speak. The only sounds she made throughout were little huffs of breath and muted cries of delight. After they finished she curled up against his chest and he fell asleep with her in his arms.

B
lake began to think he could manage this duke business. He bounded into the ducal study after breakfast, sat himself down at the historic desk, and positively whipped through the memoranda Hetherington had prepared. His secretary had a neat hand and Blake was becoming accustomed to it. His summaries were admirably brief, his recommended courses of action sensible. After an hour only a handful remained where he needed more information before making a decision, and a couple more he needed Amanda to read aloud to him. There were still a few personal letters to write.

Writing was easier than reading. He could do it quite quickly and he'd long since become practiced at scrawling such an appalling mess that no one would notice the irregular spelling, or the way letters sometimes emerged from his pen back to front. He dashed off a note to the Duke of Lethbridge who, he was pretty sure, wouldn't even attempt to decipher it. The good duke was as busy with his illicit amours as his duchess was with hers.

The Duchess of Lethbridge was, indirectly, responsible for Blake's sunny mood that morning. If it wasn't for her he wouldn't possess a duchess of his own and that would be a pity.

Damn, he felt lucky today, better than he had since the news of his father's illness: relaxed, full of vigor, and ready for anything. After a night of debauchery with an experienced and innovative mistress, Desirée for example, he'd be a little tired. Bedding a delicious young thing in a state of sobriety had sent him to sleep happy and replete.

And she hadn't made him talk about anything.

Maybe his wife had been possessed by something. Not a demon, obviously. Could one be possessed by an angel? Blake's theology was hazy on the idea, on which he wasted little speculation. Since having an amenable wife was not likely to be a lasting state of affairs, he might as well bask in it.

Intending to do a little basking, he tipped back in his chair, put his boots on his desk, and crossed his ankles. Not very ducal he thought. But he was a duke now and anything he did was, by definition, ducal. He emitted a happy sigh and basked away until interrupted by Filson.

“Who is it?” he asked, waving aside the card proffered on a silver tray.

“Mr. Geoffrey Huntley, Your Grace.”

There went the pleasure of the morning. “I don't want to see him.”

The butler gave a tactful little cough. “He was insistent, Your Grace. I would have turned him away, but I recall he came here with Your Grace on exeat from Eton once. I thought Your Grace might wish to receive an old friend.”

He'd throw something if he had to hear the phrase “old friend” again in connection with Geoffrey Huntley.

“Show him in,” he said.

He could tell Huntley to go to hell. He no longer had to keep his secret from his father. But he already knew he wouldn't. Why else had he agreed to see the man?

One day he might not care if the world knew the Duke of Hampton was barely literate, but it was too soon. He needed to establish himself in the position, learn the ropes, and win respect. He didn't want Minerva to know, not yet. So he'd discover Huntley's new price for his silence and decide if he could bring himself to pay it.

“Blake,” the miserable slug said once the butler had announced him and left. “Or Hampton I suppose I should call you now.”

Huntley was being insolent, of course. It was quite improper for a man of his insignificant status to address a duke by name. Huntley would certainly have addressed his father as Your Grace. Blake didn't care much for such distinctions, though he supposed he ought to now. And it would sound petty to demand his due. He took his feet off the desk but aimed to project the insolent self-assurance that came to him on the back of a horse or in the fencing saloon. He waited in silence for his enemy to make the first move.

Huntley appeared not a whit discomposed. He looked around for a chair and, when Blake didn't offer a seat, sat without invitation. “So you're the Duke of Hampton now. I visited Mandeville last year on a public day, since you never saw fit to invite me. Splendid park you have there.”

Once he'd regretted not being able to invite his closest school friend, unacceptable to the family by reason of his undistinguished birth. Now he felt distaste that Huntley had polluted the place. “You haven't come to make small talk about the glories of my estate. Get to the point.”

“Very well, we'll talk about me. Did you hear about the Westborough by-election? I lost.” Huntley grinned with the breezy self-deprecating charm that people always saw as evidence of honesty. “It cost me a great deal of money, you know. Thirsty devils, those electors. Must have emptied a brewery at my expense, but it turned out they preferred the other party's beer.”

Blake looked bored.

“Louther promised if I stood for Westborough and lost they'd find me a better seat this time. Westborough pretty much cleaned me out.”

“I wonder if they'd have said that if they knew where you got the money.”

“I told Louther I'd had a lucky run at cards.”

“Lucky?”

“Are you implying that I cheated at piquet?” Huntley had always been good at the wounded look. It had won him acceptance in games of cricket and football from which athletic limitations excluded him. Just one wistful sigh and Blake would insist his friends let Huntley play. At the time it had seemed a fair exchange; now he recognized early training for extortion.

“The card game was fair, I grant you that.”

“And you were drunk, Blake. You can't hold that against me.”

No. Blake took responsibility for his own inebriation that night. And might well have signed the fraudulent I.O.U. anyway. His reading wasn't much better cold sober than drunk. There wasn't any point arguing about the past. “What do you want?”

“Warfield Castle. You know what that is, don't you?”

“You want to be my handpicked candidate for the rottenest borough in England.”

“I want a Parliamentary seat that won't cost me anything and you have one in your gift.”

“And?”

“That's all.”

Like hell it was all. “Why should I give you this prize?” Blake wanted Huntley to spell it out.

“As a small token of gratitude for all those essays and exercises I wrote for you. It's such a little thing. I'm sure you wouldn't wish your beautiful new wife to know why her husband is incapable of writing her a billet-doux, or reading one either.” He picked up a sheet of paper from the desk and began to read out loud. Or rather began to stammer a disconnected string of meaningless sounds. It was an exaggeration, but not by much. Blake let him have his fun without cramming the paper down his throat.

“It's such a little thing,” Huntley said. “And will cost you nothing.”

“Until the next time you want something from me.”

“Think of it, Blake. If I'm the member for Warfield Castle you'll be my patron. I must vote as you wish and never speak ill of you. To do so would be ruin. We both get what we want. I get my career; you get my silence.”

Blake tried to consider the ramifications. Was what Huntley said true, or was he opening himself up to endless demands? And could he live with himself?

In the short term he probably could. He'd buy himself time and at least he wouldn't be forcing the party to accept a candidate they didn't want. Gideon seemed to like the fellow.

He stood up abruptly and rang the bell. “I must consult my advisers,” he said. “I'll let you know.”

Huntley opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. He knew he'd won when Blake failed to give him an outright refusal.