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Harmony was not afraid of him, of course. She was only afraid of it. The unknown, and being married, and this wedding night that might be pleasant or disastrous. She inclined her head to the woman. “Thank you, Redcliff. That will be all.” She had learned that from His Grace, that she must be cordial and formal to the servants, and call her lady’s maid by her surname only. She was a duchess now and must act the part.
The maid curtsied again and moved to the door, then turned back. “I wish you a long and happy marriage, ma’am. I speak for all the staff when I say how pleased we are that you are here. The duke never looked so happy, if I might say so.”
Harmony sensed she would have a friend in Mrs. Redcliff, formalities or not. She wished she could go to the woman and hug her. “You are kind,” Harmony said instead. “So kind you shall make me cry.”
“Oh, no.” Mrs. Redcliff’s eyes were bright with mischief. “This is not a night for tears.” The woman smoothed her apron, abashed. “But I shouldn’t go on. I wish you a pleasant evening, Your Grace. Do not hesitate to ring if there is anything you require.”
Harmony nodded, and Mrs. Redcliff smiled once more and left with the dinner tray. Kindness always made Harmony emotional, especially the kindness of women. She barely remembered her mother but she still missed her. She longed for her now, when she was so unsure of what would go on. She longed for the reassurances of a mother, a mother’s care and concern.
Do not be maudlin on your wedding night, you goose.
She went into her bedroom, taking in a deep breath at the beauty of the flowers and furnishings. She tested the taut surface of the bedclothes. The coverlet was ivory silk with smooth braiding, so perfect and elegant she hated to lie down on it. Mrs. Redcliff had turned down the top and fluffed the cushions. Harmony sat upon the edge, sinking into the luxurious comfort of the mattress. Her bed at home had been a narrow affair, her coverlet and linens worn and sometimes stale-smelling. These sheets smelled of lavender and fresh air.
She was a duchess, for goodness’ sake.
Harmony rubbed her eyes, which was probably not a very duchess-y thing to do. Then she scrunched up a handful of the diaphanous nightgown she wore. No, she mustn’t do that either. She opened her hand and smoothed the garment across her lap. What time was it? She lay back on the very grand bed in the center of the very grand chamber that was now hers, and then straightened up again as a knock sounded at the door.
“Come in.” She meant to call out the words, but her voice had shrunk to a whisper. He entered anyway, pausing just inside the door. Harmony gawked. This was not the man she knew. Gone were his fitted coats, his high, starched neckcloths and collars. No trousers and polished Hessian boots. No fine gloves. He wore a long, dark blue brocade dressing gown crossed at his front. From a triangle at the top she could see his bare skin and a hint of dark hair on his chest. He looked even larger now than he did when he was dressed in his tailored garments. He was her husband, the tall, powerful gentleman standing across her vast duchess’s chambers. She swallowed hard and rubbed her eyes again.
“Dear Harmony,” he said in a voice that sounded tender and amused at once. “Shall I stay, or are you exhausted?”
Harmony, not Miss Barrett. She had to get used to that now she was married to him. She was glad to be married to him, even if she’d had to stand in front of a thousand people to do it, worried every moment she would do something wrong. She did do things wrong. She’d stammered over words and turned to leave the altar before the ceremony was quite over. He’d had to grab her as he had in Sedgefield village that day. As he’d done the first time they danced, when all she could think about was how fierce and beautiful his eyes were.
“I am not at all tired,” she assured him. She had been tired and anxious, but now she felt very much awake. She watched him turn and shut the door in his nighttime attire. Beneath that gown was his form and muscle, his nakedness. She was naked too beneath her nightgown. It was marvelous and terrifying beyond belief.
And so she sat in her bed like a lump, though she probably ought to have been doing something. Greeting him, beckoning him. Taking off her clothes? What did wives do? She hadn’t the slightest idea, but her new husband made no signs of annoyance. He’d been so kind to her all day even though it was her fault he’d had to marry her. It made her love him, but she was a little afraid to love him, because she was afraid he wouldn’t love her back once he realized what it was like to live with her.
Oh, he was all that was proper and kind, pretending to adore her, but she had the feeling he did it because it was proper. Because a husband should smile and appear delighted at his wedding, and treat his wife with tenderness. The duke seemed to take extreme pleasure in doing things properly, not just in this, but in everything. If that is the case, some small voice whispered, how on earth could he ever find satisfaction with you?
“Are you happy with your rooms?” he asked, moving toward her. “And with your new home?”
She watched him come, mesmerized by his warm smile. Everything would be all right, because no one who smiled at her like that could ever mean her harm. “I can hardly explain how happy I am. How beautiful everything seems.”
He approached until he stood right beside her bed, then leaned down and took her hands. “A beautiful home for a beautiful wife. It is appropriate.” Did he find her beautiful? His tone was not teasing, but earnest. She blinked hard as he sat down on the bed facing her, one leg pressed right against hers. “It was a grand wedding, was it not?”
She nodded. Her chest felt tight. She looked into his eyes and choked with so many feelings she feared she would burst. “Thank you for making them respect me today,” she said. “For saving me from ruin. For marrying me. I’ll—I’ll try to be—to be a good wife for you.”
“Oh, my dear.” He shifted closer and laid his cheek right against hers. Her gaze darted down as the lower half of his dressing gown parted to reveal a muscular expanse of thigh. She noted dark hair, hard strength.
She swallowed, closing her eyes. “I don’t know what to do now.”
His hands tightened around hers. “Of course you don’t. But being a student of history, you at least know this is normal and natural between spouses, that mankind has done such for centuries, and that you will survive unscathed.”
She drew back and attempted to smile, although she didn’t quite manage it. “Oh, I never expected you to…to scathe me, Your Grace.”
“Courtland, please. Or Court. If you call me Your Grace, it rather dampens the intimacy of the moment.”
“Court,” she whispered. “Yes, Your Grace. I mean…” When he cupped her face in his hand and leaned to kiss her she sagged in relief.
She had dreamed of this kiss, wanted it, craved it every time she looked at his lips over their weeks-long courtship. She had imagined biting the curve of his aristocratic chin and smoothing her fingers over his cheeks. The first time he’d kissed her, she’d been shocked and even a little frightened by it. But not now. This time she would kiss him back, perhaps even take his face in her hands as he did hers. His mouth was strong and warm against hers, guiding her, encouraging her. He tilted her head and teased at her mouth until she sighed and opened to him. He delved deeper, breathless and a little wild. She did stroke his rough cheeks then, fascinated by their texture. His hands moved down the sides of her neck to tighten on her shoulders. It was so novel, this intimate communion between them.
“Courtland,” she said when he finally leaned away from her. “I find that so very pleasant.” She touched her lips, traced them, remembering. He stared at her with great intensity in his eyes. Even by the dim light of the lamps, she could sense a rising tension between them she could not understand or control. She leaned toward him, because she knew only he could soothe the agitation she felt.
“Look at me, dearest,” he bade her.
She did, drawing in a deep breath. He was so close. The bare skin of his leg and his chest was shocking to her. She’d never seen him without coat a
nd breeches, and boots…
“Don’t be afraid of this,” he said.
“I’m not afraid.” She couldn’t hold his gaze. Her eyes dropped to his chest. She wanted to touch him there, but at the same time, she couldn’t imagine reaching out to do it. “I’m not afraid,” she repeated. “I just don’t know what you’re going to do to me.”
He laced an arm around her waist and drew her close. “I’ll tell you, then. First I’m going to kiss you again, and then I’m going to turn you over my lap as I’ve dreamed of doing for several weeks now.”
“Over your la—” Her protest was swallowed by his avid mouth pressed against hers. Her fingers curled upon his chest at last, feeling hard muscle and the tickle of light hair. His lips slanted over hers, bringing warmth to her cheeks and a queer feeling to her stomach. She snuggled against him, thrilled, wanting more. She could feel his fingers undoing the knot at the front of her dressing gown. She barely noticed when it slipped to the floor. She was too caught up in his strength and the spicy, sweet scent of his breath. The more actively she participated, the more deeply he kissed her. He nipped her lips with his teeth and gripped her bottom with a firmness that excited her.
She moaned against his mouth and slid her hands up to his shoulders, exploring the contours of his masculine form with a pleased sound. Her breasts tingled where they pressed against his front. At last he released her and she pushed back from him, all but panting.
“Why are you— Are you turning me over your lap to—”
“Spank you? Yes.”
“B-but why? Because I flubbed about so badly at our wedding?”
“No, that is not why.”
“Oh.” She shifted against him, feeling excited and worried at the same time. “Why are you, then?”
