Four Nights With the Duke(19)

"I am not punishing you," he said impatiently. "Bloody hell, I'd think  you had ample evidence that I desire you. Are you always this dramatic?"

"No," she said shakily. "Only when I find myself being punished for the sins of my father."

His face froze.

Mia didn't even feel triumphant at the evidence she was right. "You can  see to it that I never have a chance to fall in love," she cried. "You  can take that from me. But you will never know whether I am unfaithful  to you. Never!"

Vander's response was blasphemous.                       
       
           



       

"You'd better enjoy those four nights with your mousy duchess while you  still have me," she added, "because one day I will find a man who-who  respects me."

"Respects you?" His eyes raked her body. "Does that mean that you'll  never tell him why I married you and how we married? Because he won't  respect you after he knows that, Duchess."

The sob pressed so hard that Mia could no longer suppress it. He was  right. "I'm going to my room," she managed, running for the door,  blinded by tears.

He caught her just as she reached it, spun her around.

"No!" she said with a little scream. "Get away from me."

"I respect you," he said in a grim voice. "You did what you had to for your nephew, and any decent person would respect that."

"Get away," she gasped. "Let me go." Tears were pouring down her face,  and it wasn't decorous weeping. It was the kind of sobbing that tears a  woman apart. The kind that comes after she's reminded that she's not  beautiful, and not loved, and not even respected.

She shoved him again, and this time he backed away, a helpless look on  his face, the same look that her father got every time she had a female  problem. For example, when her father had ruined her debut year by  sharing her poem.

Without another word, Mia wrenched open the door and ran up the stairs,  ignoring Vander's butler. Tears were salty in her mouth and she needed a  handkerchief . . . ten handkerchiefs.

A moment later she was on her bed, two pillows over her head, sobbing as  hard as she had when her brother and father died. Since she'd learned  the terms of that bloody will.

"I hate you," she croaked to her brother, John. "How could you . . . how could you?"

Talking to John sometimes made things easier, but not this time. She  didn't want to hate John. She had loved her brother. She loved his  memory, even though he was irritating, with his conviction that a man  had to head every household.

He wasn't there to defend himself.

And yet: "I do hate you," she said again, her voice cracking.

Her husband had been smug about his ability to get his tool stiff, given  the fact he thought she was plump enough to be carrying a child.

When she whispered "I hate you" into her pillow this time, she was aware  of two things: the first was that she was no longer addressing her dead  brother.

And the second was that she was lying.

She hated Vander. But she didn't hate those greedy kisses, and the way they made her feel sensual and treasured.

She was a fool.

An idiot to fall under his spell once again.

She hated herself.

That was true.





Chapter Eleven




NOTES ON BEQUEST SCENE





Miss Flora Percival listened with disbelief to the solicitor as he  informed her that she had just inherited a fortune with disbelief.



"Sir," she said, "I am but a poor maiden and . . . (something)"



"Miss Percival, you are now one of the richest young ladies in all  England," the solicitor said, wiping his forehead. "But I must caution  you: under the terms of this bequest, you are not allowed to give the  money to anyone. You must spend it on yourself."



"That is a most perplexing stipulation," Flora replied, knitting her fair brow.



"My client watched you from afar for many months. He had determined to  leave his money to a young woman of Excellent Character, with a Noble  Mien and Aristocratic Bearing."



"My grandfather was an earl," Flora admitted. "The family disowned my  mother when she fell in love with an impoverished violinist."



The solicitor nodded. "Your breeding heritage is reflected in your  bearing. I have taken the liberty of buying a furnished townhouse in  Mayfair. I have also ordered a carriage enameled in gold, to be drawn by  four white steeds."



(Does gold enamel exist ~ Painted in gold? Gilt?)



Vander leaned his head against the door of Mia's bedchamber. She was sobbing as if her heart was broken.

The hell, she wasn't still in love with him. Obviously she was. He'd  never kissed a woman who exploded in his arms like a swift flame that  singed and consumed. It had taken every bit of self-control he had not  to push her onto the settee and rip that ugly gown from her.

Even now, hearing her sob on the other side of the door, blood was pounding through the lower half of his body.

He could make her feel better.

No, he was being the self-righteous idiot that she believed him to be.  Had he really said that she was mousy? He couldn't remember saying that.  In the depths of fury, he tended to say things he didn't mean, as when  he had glanced down to see her thick gown bunched under her breasts and  said she was plump. He'd never cared much what shape a woman had. He  just liked their bodies.                       
       
           



       

Hell.

He had to adjust himself again. Their kisses had started a wildfire in  his loins. Round breasts, curved hips, warm skin, sweet mouth, wet . . .  he hoped she was wet.

The involuntary groan that came to his lips was like a splash of cold  water. What in the hell was he doing? He straightened and returned  downstairs.

In the entry, he informed Nottle that he was leaving for Carrington  House in order to collect his wife's nephew, and told him to instruct  the housekeeper to have the nursery in order by evening.

To his surprise, his butler's face curdled. The change was slight, but distinct. Vander raised a questioning eyebrow.

"The boy is deformed, as I understand it," Nottle said, lowering his  voice. "I've heard some around the village say as how he turns the  stomach. One leg is more like a flipper than a leg. Amphibious." He  shuddered visibly.

Vander considered this new information as he waited for his carriage to  draw around. It certainly clarified Mia's desperation. He was fairly  certain that she would fight to protect any child, not merely an  unsettlingly incomplete one. But the boy's deformity likely increased  her panic.

What's more, it provided something of an excuse for the absent fiancé.  He found it unlikely that a man who had seen through Mia's ugly clothing  and reserved demeanor would jilt her. But now there was the possibility  that the blackguard hadn't been able to face the responsibility of  raising a crippled child.

He swung into the vehicle, feeling a bit disturbed. There had been a boy  at school who was missing two fingers; other boys had been cruel to  him. Vander and Thorn had never joined in, and in fact they had pummeled  a couple of fourth-form boys who were being particularly vicious.

But he couldn't lie to himself and claim he and Thorn were high-minded  about the matter. The boy couldn't wield a cricket bat properly, and so  they left him alone.

When Vander arrived at Carrington House, Mia's butler emerged from the  house to greet him. "My name, Your Grace, is Mr. Gaunt." He paused as if  waiting for a response, likely to do with the fact that he was round as  a plum pudding.

Vander nodded and handed over his coat. He didn't care to bandy words  with the man about the incongruity of his name any more than he would  comment on his nose, which had obviously been broken in the past. Gaunt  didn't look like a butler in a lord's household, but that wasn't his  concern.

"May I convey the household's congratulations on your marriage?" the butler asked.

"Thank you," Vander said. "I'd like to speak to Sir Richard."

Sir Richard Magruder turned out to be a slim fellow with a beard trimmed  to a stiletto point, a style that hadn't been fashionable for two  centuries. Vander took an instant dislike to everything about him: the  shrewd look in his eyes, the way his hair had been coaxed to a curl, the  gleaming surface of his boots.

"Your Grace, it is a pleasure to welcome you to Carrington House," the  man said, coming out from behind a large desk with a hospitable air that  failed to acknowledge that the desk now belonged to Vander.

Vander bowed, and watched as Sir Richard dipped and stayed down, making a  few extra flourishes with his right hand while bent over that, along  with his Elizabethan beard, seemed to indicate that he fancied himself  living in the past. A servant to the queen, in short.