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“I know it were at your place,” Trent was telling his brother-in-law as the three men ascended the stairs. “In the picture gallery, which must be at least a mile long, and he were in the alcove and Jess said he were her favorite—”
“The gallery is one hundred eighty feet long,” Dain said. “As Ainswood will attest. On the day of my father’s funeral, I set up one of the portraits of my sire upon an easel and proposed an archery contest. You recall, don’t you, Ainswood? Using my dear Papa for target practice was sophomoric, you claimed. You assured me that I would find more satisfaction rogering that evil redhead, Charity Graves, in the master bedchamber. Having tested her yourself, you deemed her worthy of my efforts.” He clapped Vere on the shoulder as they reached the top of the stairs. “Ah, well, my lad, those days are over. No more sharing trollops for us. We must make do with ladies, and only one apiece.” He turned to Bertie. “Good night, Trent. Pleasant dreams.”
“I say Dain, but you—”
Dain’s deadly black stare cut him off.
Bertie tugged at his neckcloth. “That is. Well.” He backed away from Dain. “Mean to say, congratulations, Ainswood, and good night and much obliged, you know—groomsman. Honored.” He shook Vere’s hand, nodded at Dain, then fled to his room.
In the recesses of Vere’s brain, the wispy something teased again, but his glance stole down the hall to the last door, behind which his duchess waited, and that hot awareness blotted out the vexing will-o’-the-wisp.
“My lady’s expecting our brat sometime in February or March,” Dain said, recalling Vere’s attention to him. “It wants godparents. Perhaps you and your bride will accept the position.”
It took Vere a moment to believe his ears, then another to digest the implications. Then his throat tightened. Despite time, separations, misunderstandings, and mills, he and Beelzebub were friends, still. “So that’s why you were so eager to see me wed,” he said, not altogether steadily.
“I was eager on several counts,” said Dain. “But I will not make you stay and listen to my reasons. You have…responsibilities.” He smiled faintly. “I will not keep you from them.”
To his horror, Vere felt the heat rise in his face.
“You are blushing, Ainswood,” said Dain. “Today is truly a day of miracles.”
“Go to the devil,” Vere muttered, starting down the hall.
Behind him, he heard Dain’s low chuckle. “If you find yourself stumped what to do, Your Grace,” he called, “feel free to knock on my door.”
“Stumped what to do, indeed,” Vere answered without turning around. “I taught you everything you know, Beelz—and not half what I know.”
He heard another of the satanic rumbles that passed for laughter, then the sound of a door opening and closing.
“Knock on your door,” Vere went on under his breath. “Very amusing. Hilarious. As though I’m not the elder and wasn’t the one who brought you your first trollop.” He rapped impatiently at the portal to his room. “Bloody damned know-it-all. Always was. Always will be. I should break his big beak for—”
His bride opened the door.
He was vaguely aware that she was still fully dressed, but he didn’t pause to wonder about it. He entered, kicked the door shut behind him, caught her in his arms, and crushed her to him.
He buried his face in her neck. Her soft, thick hair tickled his cheek while her scent stole into him, and he drank it in greedily. “Oh, Lord, Grenville,” he murmured. “I thought I’d never get away from them.”
Her arms came up about him, but stiffly, and her long body vibrated tension. He lifted his head to gaze at her. Her face was pale and hard. Her eyes gave him back his own reflection and something else. Something dark and troubled.
“You’re weary,” he said, loosening his boa-constrictor grip. “It’s been a very long and tiring day.”
“I’m not weary.” Her voice throbbed. “I came straight here, and fell onto the bed and asleep before my head touched the pillow.” She eased out of his arms. “I woke an hour ago. I’ve had plenty of rest. And time to think.”
“Which left no time for changing into something more appropriate for the wedding night,” he said, resolutely ignoring a fierce jab of the conscience he wasn’t speaking to. He had rushed her into matrimony. He’d taken advantage of a moment of weakness. Very well, then. He was unscrupulous—along with depraved and obnoxious and the other et ceteras. That was his nature. “That’s quite all right. I’ll be happy to help you out of your armor.” He brought his hands to the topmost button.
“I’m not prepared to consummate the marriage,” she said stiffly.
“No problem.” He unbuttoned the first button. “I’ll prepare you.”
She swatted his hands away. “This is serious, Ainswood. We must talk.”
“Grenville, you know we can’t converse for more than two minutes without quarreling,” he said. “Let’s not talk tonight, what do you say?” He started to work on the second button.
Her hand, very cold, clamped upon his. “My conscience will not allow me to be your wife,” she said. “I want an annulment.”
“Your conscience has lost its mind,” he said. He kissed her straight, haughty nose. “This is merely bridal nerves.”
“I am not a nervous person.” Her voice climbed, grew shakier. “I am not hysterical, and you are not to patronize me. All I have done is come to my senses.” She paused, setting her jaw and lifting her chin. “The fact is, I am not a lady, not even half a lady. You are the Duke of Ainswood. You must wed a lady. You owe it to your family.”
“I’ve wed you,” he said impatiently. “I don’t want a lady. I shouldn’t know what to do with one.” He grasped her shoulders. “I hope you’re not turning missish on me.”
“We cannot go to bed.” Twin spots of pink appeared in her cheeks. “You must not be fruitful and multiply with me. I cannot allow you to take such a risk.”
“A what?”
“My family.” She choked out the words. “You don’t know about my family. I should have told you before, but I was too agitated. I had been so alarmed that you were killed, and then…” She pulled away. “It is so absurd. I wanted to make you happy, and you were so set upon marrying without delay. I do not know why I wanted to make you happy, why I fancy I can.”
“It’s easy to make me happy, Grenville. All you need to do is take off your—”
“My mother was sickly from the time my sister was born.” Her words came out in a rush. “My mother died when I was ten. My little sister took consumption and died barely three years later. My father was a third-rate actor and a drunkard and a gambler. He possessed not one redeeming quality.” Twisting her hands together, she walked to the fireplace. “Mine is bad blood. Your family deserves better. You must consider them—the line you represent.”
“A pox on my line,” he said, but without heat. She was obviously overset, on the edge of hysteria. The strain of the day’s events was telling. He went to her. “Come, Grenville, only listen to yourself. You’re a worse snob than Dain. The line I represent, indeed. What’s become of Miss Liberté, Égalité, and Fraternité? What’s become of Madam Vindication of the Rights of Women? Where has my dragon-girl gone?”
“I’m not a dragon,” she said. “I am merely a lowborn scribbler with a foul disposition.”
“I see that you’re not in a humor to listen to reason,” he said. “We’ll have to settle this in sporting fashion.”
He stepped away from her and shrugged out of his coat. Then he tore off his neckcloth. A few swift yanks released his waistcoat buttons. He pulled off the waistcoat and tossed it aside. He kicked off his shoes.
He assumed a fighting stance, fists upraised.
She stared at him.
“Hit me,” he said. “I’ll give you three tries. If you can’t connect, I get three tries.”
“To hit me?” she asked, plainly bewildered.
He relaxed his stance. “Grenville, if I hit you, you’d drop stone co
ld on the floor,” he said patiently. “What bloody good would you be to me then? Use your head.”
He resumed his pugilistic pose. “If you can’t hit me, I get three tries to make you fall onto the bed, panting with lust.”
A martial light sparked in her blue eyes. “Devil confound you, Ainswood, haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? Can’t you take your mind off your breeding organs for a moment and consider your future—and your ancestors—and your position?”
He shook his head. “Sorry. Not that civilized. Come, Grenville.” He stuck out his chin. “Aren’t you itching to break my jaw? Or how about my nose?” He pointed there. “Wouldn’t you like to plant me a conker? Not that you’ve a prayer, but it’ll be amusing to see you try.”
She glowered at him.
He danced a bit, jabbing the air with his right, then his left. “Come, what are you afraid of? Here’s your chance to give me the pair of stinkers you promised in Vinegar Yard. Or was that all boasting? Did the tap on my jaw hurt your little hand too much, my delicate flower? Did you learn your lesson then?”
It came from nowhere. Lightning fast and low, her fist shot toward his privates.
He nipped aside in the nick of time. “Not there, Grenville,” he said, swallowing his astonishment. “Think of our children.”
She stepped back, her eyes narrowed, assessing him from head to toe, looking for the chink in his defenses. “You didn’t say I had to fight fair,” she said.
