Confessions From an Arranged Marriage (27 page)

Of course he wouldn't mind charging down the hill and putting a few politicians to the sword, but he didn't believe his love would appreciate that gesture. More likely causing grievous harm to a member of the reform party would lead to his summary eviction from her bed. Although he believed Minerva had grown fond of him, and she certainly found him physically appealing—she'd never made a secret of it—he didn't flatter himself that she returned his feelings. He had some work to do there, and revealing his cretinous inability to read a simple handwritten letter wasn't going to achieve his ends. He needed to bewitch and enrapture her until nothing she learned of him could make a difference.

He knew it could happen because it was the way he felt about her. She was clever and funny and beautiful and stubborn and outspoken and a complete thorn in his flesh and he adored her. No matter what she did, he would always adore her. How he would bring her to that same happy state he had no idea. But he wanted to start his efforts at once.

He needed exercise and after several days of rain he was behind on the schedule of land inspections he'd set himself. So though his heart jumped with impatience to behold his beloved again, he made himself complete his work. Neglecting his duty would not, he fancied, impress Minerva. Besides, he took pride in his stewardship of his family acres.

By midmorning his need to set eyes on her was a physical ache. He trotted along the stable road, letting his horse cool down, despite his haste. Quite a decent beast, one of his father's saddle horses. Nevertheless the horseflesh at Mandeville wasn't up to his standards. He looked forward to the arrival of his French purchases, which had crossed the channel and were making their slow way to Shropshire.

At a curve in the road a man emerged from a stand of laurels and walked out into his path. His heart sank. Whenever life seemed particularly good, his nemesis turned up to spoil it.

The first thing he thought when he dismounted was how short Huntley was. Perhaps he'd never noticed before because Huntley had never boxed or fenced with him. He looked positively disreputable, his coat unbrushed, neck cloth askew, and boots scuffed. Very unlike the dapper aspirant to Parliament who'd talked his way into Vanderlin House and a rotten borough a few weeks ago.

Blake stood by his horse, waiting in silence for Huntley's new demand.

“You've ruined me,” he said, brimming with resentment. “The bailiffs have taken almost everything and there's one more creditor who'll do far worse if I don't come up with nearly two thousand.”

“Been gambling in low places again? I'd say you've ruined yourself.”

“I'll take five thousand pounds for my silence. Then you'll never hear from me again. I promise.” Even now, Huntley tried to feign sincerity, but his façade was slipping. Blake saw nothing but low cunning, tinged with desperation.

“Why should I believe you?”

“This time you can. I intend to leave the country. There's nothing left for me here.”

And there was nothing left for Blake but to tell the blackguard to go to blazes, as he should have years ago. Yet curiosity held him back. A lingering memory of old affection meant he wanted to know what had gone wrong. Though there was nothing Huntley could say to change his mind, he wanted to understand why the most important friendship of his youth had turned so sour. “Why did you do it?” he asked. “If you needed funds you should have asked.”

Huntley's civility grew as bedraggled as his linen. “I knew you'd never dare ask your father for the kind of money I needed to pay off my debts of honor. With
your
honor at stake you'd go to the duke. Turns out I was right.”

“You got a lot more than you needed.”

“My father sent me to Eton as an investment. That beating I took for you was my first expenditure of capital, you might say.” He sniggered unpleasantly. “What a lode of gold I hit. Not just a duke's heir, but an idiot with a secret I could help him keep. I thought I was made for life.”

“You were a fool. You could have been.”

“I should have been,” Huntley almost shouted. “But you betrayed me. I was no longer any use to you and you discarded me for other companions. Men of birth, not a mere merchant's son. You couldn't even let me have Warfield Castle. Such a small thing and it cost you nothing. As an M.P. I couldn't be imprisoned for debt, and I had it parlayed into a nice little government sinecure.”

Blake had heard enough of Huntley's self-serving blather. “I shall never give you another penny. Do your worst.” He loomed over the creature, who snarled and spit with rage, his beatific features no longer disguising the rottenness of his heart. “You'll find the Duke of Hampton's worst is a lot more potent than Geoffrey Huntley's.”

Huntley launched one last insult. “It's your wife who's given you the courage, I suppose. I was indiscreet with her. I never thought to see you, of all men, living under petticoat rule.”

Even through his exasperation, a smile intruded. “You have no idea,” Blake said, more to himself than to his taunter.

“Under the thumb of a lowborn creature you had to wed because you were caught debauching her.”

That was quite enough and it ended quickly. A quick right to the jaw wiped the sneer off Huntley's face. He slumped to the ground, out cold. Blake dusted off his hands and grinned.

He returned to the stable and summoned the head groom.

“There's an unconscious man near the laurels. Take two of the lads and dump him out beyond the gates. I want him off my land.”

Hitting Huntley had been remarkably satisfying. He should have done it years ago. While it might not be the method his father would have used, he felt the old man would have approved. He'd told Blake he must be his own kind of duke, and apparently that meant using his skilled fists when the case demanded it.

As he walked back to the house the high noon sun emerged from behind a harmless white cloud and bathed him in its light. Symbolically he felt his father's blessing touch his brow. More than ever he wished he'd had the opportunity to confess to the duke. Instead he would confess to his wife, throw himself on the mercy of the woman he loved. This very night, after they retired, we would tell her everything.

In the meantime he needed to solve the problem for which this gathering at Mandeville had been assembled. And because real life hadn't magically transformed, he'd better do it soon, before his guests heard from Huntley. He trusted Minerva's response, but not that of the world. His moment of wielding his inherited influence might be only too brief.

Chapter 30

T
he table in the state dining room at Mandeville was very long. Occasional oases of feminine colored silks punctuated the sober attire of the political males who made up the majority of the seated diners. Diana, perfection in red, sat halfway up on the left, vainly trying to make polite conversation with one of her neighbors. Minerva saw her exchange amused shrugs across the table with Sebastian, who wasn't even trying to make himself heard among the babble.

Most of the guests were talking. At once. Loudly. Minerva's debut as a political hostess was about to degenerate into a brawl.

Her gaze traversed yards of gleaming mahogany, past silver and crystal and porcelain, and found her husband seated at the head of the table on another ducal throne. The stark black coat and black mourning neck cloth only enhanced his golden beauty. He sat still, silent and utterly dignified, an island of calm among bellowed opinions and fraying tempers. Minerva's stomach fluttered and she felt most peculiar, as though she'd fallen from a great height and was tumbling head over heels into a bank of clouds. Her chest tightened and she could hardly breathe. It was too far for real eye contact, but she knew when he noticed her looking at him. They exchanged something, a wordless thought that cut through the cacophony. He nodded at her and rose to his feet.

At first only those sitting nearest him noticed, then quiet traveled through the ranks. Minerva's squabbling neighbors were the last to know and stop in mid-dueling sentence. Only the discreet clatter of dishes broke the silence as the footmen continued about their business.

“Gentlemen,” Blake said, “I have welcomed you to Mandeville as my father would have, even though my family is still in deep mourning, because the cause of parliamentary reform was dear to his heart.”

A murmur of approval was quelled with a frown. “I can't speak with certainty for the late duke, but knowing my father I'm reasonably sure he'd be appalled at what I've been hearing today. He knew, I know, you all know, that there is no single view of reform. Whatever happens will be too much for some, too little for others, and not exactly what anyone wants.”

Minerva's heart swelled with pride. It was exactly what she would have said, and already had, to her husband. But the tone of voice was all his and so was the look. She'd seen Blake bored, she'd seen him sulky, and she'd seen him arrogantly scornful. Lately she'd got to know his better side: charming, attentive, funny, and capable of causing a good deal of pleasure. But now he stood at the head of the table and exuded the raw power of generations of dukes.

His voice managed to be calm, well bred, and utterly reasonable, but underlain with threats of unspoken retribution. The familiar deep tones held a new edge that seemed to stroke the base of Minerva's spine.

“Let's be reasonable, gentlemen. Every one of you knows how hard it will be to introduce a reform bill in Parliament. That bill won't go as far as most of us would like but it will be better than the present system. Imagine you are called upon to vote on a reform bill with these provisions.” He raised a forefinger to the fascinated assembly. “One. Extend the franchise to small landowners, tenants, and householders in the boroughs. Two. Abolish the rotten boroughs and pocket seats and give their members to large towns that are now unrepresented. Three. Make it less difficult for those enfranchised to actually vote.” He glanced around the table, daring anyone to argue. No one did. How could they contradict that steely gaze? Breathing became a labor for Minerva.

“Who will vote against it?” No answer. “Good. Now stop arguing and reach an agreement. If you're still fighting at breakfast, you may all summon your carriages and go home.”

She shouldn't approve, of course, even if the result was desirable. The Duke of Hampton had treated them to a show of aristocratic potency that reminded them the age of the nobility had not yet passed. Even as her principles abhorred it, her brain applauded and her body reacted in the most extraordinary way.

Every arrogant word had ripped through her body like a hot caress. She looked at her husband and heat flooded her abdomen. She wanted to stand up and cheer. Then throw herself on him and take him. Now.

After a minute or so, conversations resumed. The tone was low and civil and serious, but she barely noticed. She muttered some politeness to her neighbors, rose to her feet, and walked the length of the room to where Blake waited and watched her, his head tilted in question. She curtseyed.

“Your Grace,” she said. “I believe our guests have much to discuss among themselves. Shall we retire?”

He offered his arm, his only answer a glow in his impossibly dark blue eyes. Surely he could hear her panting. Surely everyone could.

She couldn't fall on him. The passages and halls were full of footmen. “Where?” he asked.

The house was too big and their beds too far away. “Your study,” she said.

She closed the door and reached for the fall of his evening breeches. She wasn't feeling subtle. He stiffened beneath her touch and by the time her fingers, lent efficiency by desperation, had seen to the buttons, he was hard and ready.

Wildly, she looked around.

“Desk.” He answered her unspoken question, guiding her backward and pulling at the satin skirts of her gown so that by the time her behind hit furniture he'd found her drawers and ripped them off. She feared they were damp, for she was insane with lust. With easy strength he lifted her onto the desk.

“Quick,” she commanded, rustling her skirts out of the way and spreading her legs. For a few seconds cool air soothed her burning entrance but this wasn't the relief she wanted.

“Whatever you say, Duchess.”

Holding her firm with his steady sportsman's hand at her back, he guided himself into place, entering her with one powerful thrust that elicited an unbidden scream of satisfaction.

It was fast and noisy and without finesse. She clawed his neck with her nails, made her legs a girdle around his waist, and clenched her inner muscles to hold him tight each time he entered and withdrew. She approached her peak with unprecedented rapidity, driven by his steady strokes and inarticulate groans. She screamed again, and the explosion of sound enhanced her excitement, bringing her ever closer to the brink.

“Oh my lord, Minnie,” he rasped and bent her back over the desk, pushing her knees to her shoulders and bearing down with harder thrusts. She went over the top just as his movements became convulsive and, with a shout to challenge her own final shriek, he released his hot seed and pulled her into his arms.

Half lying on the ancient oak desk of the Dukes of Hampton, a surface even wider than the one at Vanderlin House, they clutched each other until their panting subsided.

Minerva was the first to speak. “You are magnificent.”

He grinned and looked modestly pleased with himself. “Anything to please Your Grace.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “That was the most fun I've had all day.”

“I didn't mean
this
. Much as I enjoyed it.” She stroked his cheek and pouted her lips to reach his, in case he didn't think she appreciated
this.
“I meant earlier, in the dining room. I do believe you may have saved the day.”

“The ideas and words were yours. All I contributed was a voice.”

“At exactly the right moment. You served notice that the new Duke of Hampton has taken up the mantle of the old.”

Blake stood, leaving her cold. She stumbled to her feet and smoothed her petticoats and skirts. He turned his back on her, but she didn't think it was modesty while he fastened his trousers. “I'm not my father,” he said.

She put her arms around his waist and rested against his back, willing her warmth to relieve the stress she heard in his voice. “You are more than worthy to be his son.”

“I can't be like him. I don't even want to be. I'm not going to lead the party and I'll never be a member of the government, let alone Prime Minister. I wish I could be the man you want, Minnie, but I don't have it in me.”

“You are the man I want. You don't have to be anyone different.”

His hands found hers and squeezed them. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

“I want to do what's right but there are things my position requires that I'm simply not suited for. All this political business.”

“That's why you're lucky to have me.”

“I can feel you smiling against my back.”

“You've just made me very happy.”

He twisted in her arms and gathered her into his. “You just made
me
very happy. Very happy.”

“That's not what I meant . . .” Her protest was interrupted by a warm open-mouthed kiss. “What I meant—” she began when she was able. But he cut her off and sealed her lips with a finger.

“Hush. I know what you meant. We make a good team. When it comes to politics you supply the brains and I provide the muscle.”

“You read my very thoughts.”

It wasn't the first time she'd talked of him reading her.
You read me like a book,
she'd said last time.

This was a perfect moment for Blake to make his confession. While he sought the right words, her attention was distracted. “Oh look. We've knocked your papers all over the floor.”

“Leave them . . .”

Too late. She gathered up the scattering of reports his secretaries and land agents had left on his desk, each with its brief summary.

“Why—” she began.

He could see it in her face, knowledge and doubt at war. With her intelligence the right conclusion was inevitable. The thread holding up the sword unraveled and he waited for the inevitable crash.

“It doesn't seem possible and yet . . .” she began.

“You've guessed.”

“You
don't
read.
Can
you read?”

“I can read.”

“I've never seen you do it. Not even a menu.”

Stripped bare and vulnerable, he somehow found the courage to speak plainly and admit, without prevarication, what he'd hidden so long.

“I can read,” he said, “but not well. I was never able to learn. The Duke of Hampton is an idiot and you married him.”

Her beautiful face blazed with an unfathomable emotion. Seconds passed like hours and he had the thought that his heart might fail and he would die before she spoke.

Of all her possible reactions he would never have dared imagine what happened. The papers she clutched drifted to the floor. Two steps and his hand was pressed between both hers and she engaged him eye to eye, hers bluer and fiercer than he'd ever seen.

“Don't you dare call the man I love an idiot.”

A rushing filled his ears. He must have misheard. When he opened his mouth nothing came out. “Love?” Finally one croaked word.

“I love you, Blake.”

His eyes stung. “You can't.”

“As you know very well, I do not take kindly to being told what I can and cannot do. It's taken me a long time to realize it, but I love you.” A dazzling smile lit her face and the room seemed full of sunshine. “I love you.”

His arms slipped around her and he buried his face in her hair. “Oh God, Minnie. I love you too. So very much.” He feared he would weep. He'd cried in her arms before, the night of his father's funeral. This time his tears remained unshed. He merely held her tight and relished her slender strength, her sweet clean scent, the silken hair tickling his nose.

“Oh, my goodness!” she said, her voice rich with the same incredulity he'd felt when he'd discovered his feelings. “Who would have ever imagined it? We love each other. After loathing each other for years.”

“You were the most impossible girl I ever met.”

“And you were the most despicable man in the world.”

They laughed shakily and kissed and exchanged disjointed murmurs of disbelief and happiness.