When the Duke Found Love (36 page)

And there wouldn’t be one blasted perfect thing about that.

“Perhaps we should step down and walk,” she said, only half in jest. “Likely we’d go faster if we did.”

“Or swim,” he said. “Diana, I’m sorry that—”

“Hush, hush,” she said, placing her fingers across his lips to silence him. “Why should you apologize for rain that’s not your fault? Do you think Noah apologized to Mrs. Noah for the rain then?”

“Noah had nothing to apologize for, having a better ark than this wretched old vessel,” he said, his mood darkening by the minute. “Besides, Mrs. Noah was already Mrs. Noah, which you are not.”

“Duchess of Noah,” she mused. “You must agree it has a pretty sound to it.”

“Not so pretty if we float clear away to Galilee,” he said. “We’ve stopped completely now. What the devil is that rascal of a driver about now?”

“I hope he hasn’t drowned,” Diana said, then gasped as the man’s face appeared at the window. He did in fact look perilously close to drowned, his sodden coat plastered to his body and water streaming from his hat down his face.

“F’give me, sir,” he shouted, “but th’ horses can go no further, not wit’out droppin’ where they stand.”

“Damnation, man,” Sheffield said crossly. “You can’t mean to leave us stranded here. My wife’s exhausted, and nearly as wet as your infernal horses.”

“Hush now, Mr. Hart, I’m well enough,” she said beside him, assuming her new role with remarkable ease. “Is there an inn nearby, sir? A modest place where we could wait out the storm?”

“There is indeed, mistress,” the driver shouted, pointing off into the rain. “Not a hundred yards hence. I meant t’ suggest it myself.”

“That would be most kind of you,” Diana said, smiling so warmly that the man tugged the brim of his hat to her before he climbed back up on the box.

“You didn’t have to beguile the rascal,” Sheffield grumbled. “
Mrs
. Hart.”

“Mrs. Hart is not nearly so stuffy as the Duchess of Sheffield must be,” she said, drawing closer to him inside his cloak. “Besides, no matter the rank, a smile will generally accomplishes more with a man than cursing and name-calling.”

She smiled up at him, determined to prove her point. He kissed her, as far as he would go toward admitting she was right, and then turned to peer through the rain at the inn.

“I can only guess what manner of infernal den he’s taking us to,” he said. “We’ll be fortunate not to be robbed and murdered in our bed.”

She leaned close to the glass beside him. “Why, it looks quite agreeable,” she said. “Not an infernal den at all. Quite welcoming, actually.”

But as they lumbered into the inn’s yard, Sheffield swore. He couldn’t help it. He’d good reason, too. He recognized the inn at once, and while it might not appear an infernal den to Diana’s innocent eyes, it was damnably close. The Green Turtle was an inn pleasingly situated on the river, not far from Bagnigge Wells and barely outside the city. The house kept an excellent cellar and better cook, and was famous for the sherry-laced turtle soup that provided its name.

But the Green Turtle was far more famous for ill-fame than soup, and widely known for discretion and for assignations. It was the place where philandering gentlemen brought nubile actresses, and wayward noble wives could meet their latest cicisbeo for an afternoon’s dalliance. Everyone in London knew of the Green Turtle, though no one ever admitted to having been there. Sheffield had been there himself, once or twice when he’d been much younger and lured by the infamy of the place—not that he would admit it now.

But to be cast on this particular doorstep with Diana seemed the cruelest of ironies, and the most unseemly. He had wanted to behave as honorably to her as he could, not spend their first night together—or what was left of it—in an expensive bawdy house.

“I cannot wait for a pot of hot tea, all to myself,” she said as the hackney finally ground to a halt. “Though I might be persuaded to share it with you, Mr. Hart.”

“We can’t stay here, Diana,” he said. “It’s not proper.”

She peered out the window as the stable boy came hurrying through the rain to open the door.

“It looks perfectly proper to me,” she said. “Beggars can’t be choosers, Sheffield, especially wet beggars.”

Before he could explain further, the door had opened and she’d hopped out with Fig’s basket in her hand. His last glimpse was of her racing toward the inn’s door with Fantôme trotting at her side, leaving him to settle with the hackney’s driver.

By the time he entered the inn himself, Diana was already addressing the keeper with the horrifying self-assurance of a frequent visitor.

“They’ve only one room left, Mr. Hart,” she said, greeting him. “I took it.”

“We’re filled up with weary travelers this night, sir,” the man said, his face impassive, or merely just wishing he were back in his own bed. “The one room’s all we have left, but a fine room it is, sir, with a fine bed and a fine view of the water. The river, I mean, sir, not the rain. We’ve all had enough of that this night, haven’t we?”

“One, ah, bed?” Sheffield asked. “Only one?”

“Aye, sir,” the keeper said, patting the front of his green apron. “A fine bed it is, too. There’s a looking glass in that room, too, I believe.”

“A looking glass?” repeated Diana curiously. “I should expect there would be one.”

“Aye, ma’am,” the keeper said blandly. “A large one, secured on a stand so as to be adjusted however one pleases.”

“It’s for looking, Mrs. Hart,” Sheffield said hurriedly, even as his own wicked thoughts raced off to imagine all the things to be seen in that large looking glass. Damnation, why was it being so blasted difficult to behave honorably toward her? “That’s, ah, what large looking glasses are for.”

“Oh, aye,” the keeper said. “You and Mrs. Hart won’t complain, I am certain of it.”

Yet still Sheffield hesitated, imagining Brecon and March discovering him and Diana in a fine bed at the Green Turtle.

“Is there, ah, no room set aside for ladies’ lodgings?” he asked. “My, ah, wife prefers to sleep among others of her sex while we travel.”

“I do not, Mr. Hart,” Diana said, regarding him suspiciously. “I’m not so odd a duck as that.”

“That’s well, Mrs. Hart,” said the keeper, “since we keep no separate lodgings for ladies alone. We find our guests are all wedded folk like yourselves, and wish to keep to their beds together. This way, Mrs. Hart, Mr. Hart.”

Sheffield was sure the man was smirking over those names. Why hadn’t Diana called them Mr. and Mrs. Sweetheart and been done with it?

She was already following the man up the stairs when Sheffield called them back. “Stop, keep, if you please. I’ve, ah, another request.”

Slowly the man returned, while Diana waited on the bottom step. “What is it, Mr. Hart? We try to oblige our guests as best we can. Is it a special dish you wish prepared, or a favorite spirit you’d like brought up?”

In silent manful misery, Sheffield shook his head. He thought of the special license in his pocket and the emerald ring beside it, of the waiting bishop and the duchess’s bedchamber filled with roses at Oakworth, and he weighed all those good and noble symbols of respectable matrimony against a room with a fine bed and large looking-glass at the Green Turtle.

“Honestly, Mr. Hart,” Diana said, coming to tuck her hand into his arm. Her clothes were just wet enough that they clung to her body, outlining the curves of her breasts and waist and bottom in a way that was making being honorable almost impossible. “You are being dreadfully skittish this night.”

“A reverend minister,” he blurted out abruptly. “A gentleman of the cloth. Any fellow from a nearby church will do. That is what I require, at once.”

“A minister, sir?” The keeper looked at him dolefully. “Forgive me, Mr. Hart, but while we seek to oblige our guests, there are limits to—”

“You wish to marry me here?” Diana asked, her smile wobbling with emotion. “Now?”

“You wish to marry, ah, Mrs. Hart all over again?” the keeper asked. “Our guests don’t usually do that, either, sir, but if—”

“Here.” Sheffield pressed three guineas into the keeper’s hand. “Find the man as soon as possible. I do not wish to wait a minute longer than necessary, and neither does Mrs. Hart.”

Less than a half hour later, an elderly minister was miraculously produced, his eyes bleary from sleep and his jaw unshaven. In that time, too, the word had spread as to the noble names on the special license, and by the time the minister arrived, the Green Turtle’s front room was crowded with people from the inn and the nearby village, as well as drovers and farmers on their way to the London markets. All were eager to be witnesses to the wedding, especially after Sheffield announced he’d reward every witness with a dram to drink his bride’s health.

A quarter hour after that, as the first light of day filtered through the front windows, Sheffield had put the ring once again on Diana’s finger, and soundly kissed her as his new wife. A cheer of goodwill rose around them and she laughed, all the incentive he needed to sweep her from her feet and into his arms.

She shrieked with surprise and more laughter, too, her legs dangling shamelessly from her skirts as she clung to his shoulders. “Whatever are you doing, Sheffield?”

“I’m going to make you forget that skittish Mr. Hart forever,” he declared. “Skittish, my foot.”

He carried her up the stairs amidst the general roar of good wishes for their future and predictions for the number of their children. At the top of the stairs, she wriggled free, racing ahead down the passage as he chased after her. He caught her at the door, exactly as he suspected she’d planned, and as he kissed her, they heard the obvious sounds of another couple making noisy love in the next room.

Diana’s eyes widened and she giggled. “Very inspiring.”

“For us,” he asked, leering as he unlatched the door, “or for them?”

He caught her up again and carried her through the door, kicking it shut after them. He tossed her on the bed and she laughed again, not caring that she lay sprawled with her skirts already in inviting disarray. Lying on her back, she began to unfasten the front of her bodice, her gaze never leaving his as he tore off his coat and waistcoat.

“I know you’d planned it otherwise,” she said breathless, shrugging free of her bodice. “I know you’d wanted us to wed at Oakworth with a bishop and all, but I wouldn’t wish it any other way than this, Sheffield. This is
perfect
.”

“I can make it much more perfect than that, sweet,” he said, tearing at the buttons on his breeches. He was already hard just from looking at her, aching and ready to make her his wife in the only way that really mattered. “And I’ll make you forget that sorry bastard Mr. Hart ever—”

“Listen, Sheffield, listen.” She sat up, then rolled from the bed and ran to the window that overlooked the inn’s yard. “Oh, by all that’s holy, Sheffield, look! It’s March!”

“Damnation, no,” Sheffield muttered, joining her at the window. There was no mistaking the carriage with the Marchbourne crest on the door, or the half-dozen mounted footmen in livery that rode in accompaniment. Another footman jumped down from the carriage to open the chaise’s door, and March himself stepped out, which Sheffield had expected, but then Charlotte appeared as well, which he had not, both of them striding purposefully toward the inn’s door.

“Quickly, we must dress again,” Diana said, now dressing with the same frantic haste that she’d been undressing only a few moments before. “I don’t want them to find us like this.”

“Like what? Like man and wife?” Sheffield said, though he, too, was pulling his clothes back on. “They could find us naked and it wouldn’t matter now.”

“Yes, yes, but they don’t know that yet,” she said, slipping her feet into her shoes. “How do I look?”

To him she looked like a woman who’d just been caught with her lover, her clothes on but so askew that she might as well have left them off.

“You look fine,” he said. “We’re only going downstairs long enough to send them away, you know. March and Charlotte are excellent company, but I would rather have you alone.”

“And I you, March.” She reached up and kissed him, running her hand lightly down his chest to the top of his breeches in a way that made him very nearly toss her back on the bed, March and Charlotte or not. But instead she broke away and briskly threw open the door.

Then stopped, and gasped, her hand flying up to her mouth. He followed, curious to see what had so stopped her.

The door to the neighboring room with the noisily amorous couple had just opened, too, and the noisily amorous couple were hurrying from it, in much the same disheveled state of dress.

“Mama?” Diana gasped, staring at her mother. “
Mama?
Here?”

But Sheffield was looking past Lady Hervey to where Brecon stood, fastening the buckle on his neckcloth.

“My God,” Sheffield said. “Brecon. I never thought—”

“Diana!” exclaimed Lady Hervey. “Oh, my own daughter, what are you doing here? Where’s Lord Crump? Why are you here with—”

“Sheffield,” Brecon said. “What in blazes are you doing with Lady Diana?”

“
We
are married,” Diana said, thrusting out her hand with the ring. “This morning, with a special license. But you, Mama, you—”

Brecon put his hands on Lady Hervey’s shoulders. “Your mother has just agreed to marry me,” he said. “We are to be wed early next month. We would have announced it today, at your wedding. At your, ah, other wedding.”

“You are married to Sheffield,” Lady Hervey said, bewildered, as she looked at the emerald ring. “Diana, Diana, of all I thought for you, I never guessed this.”

Slowly she began to curtsey, bowing her head. “I congratulate you on your marriage, Your Grace.”

“Oh, Mama, please don’t,” Diana said, pulling her mother up to embrace her. “If you marry Brecon, than you’ll be a duchess, too. We’ll all be equal, and then—”

“Sheffield!” thundered March as he came up the stairs with Charlotte hurrying after him. “How dare you dishonor Lady Diana, you wretched—”

“He hasn’t dishonored her, March,” Brecon said. “He’s married her instead.”