The Duke Who Loved Me by Jane Ashford

Seventeen

Cecelia woke late on her wedding day, though she was always up early. She came swimming up from a sea of dreams she did not remember. Thus it became a rush to dress in the sea-green gown she’d chosen for the ceremony, find bonnet and gloves, and ride over to the church. There was no time to wonder if she’d made the right decision or worry about the future.

Her father and aunt, who accompanied her, added a sense of disconnection as the three of them so seldom traveled anywhere together. They commented on the fine weather and the sight of a climbing rose as if this was any carriage ride on any late spring day. They did not seem concerned that with this ceremony she was leaving them forever. Though Cecelia had felt rather differently about her father since his story of meeting Mama, he remained exactly the same.

They came to the church and found James and Henry Deeping waiting there. Cecelia hadn’t invited anyone else. Once she was married, at some future time, she would celebrate with all her friends. For now she preferred that word not get out.

The priest was ready. They stood before him and heard the familiar phrases of the wedding service. Cecelia spoke her vows clearly, as did James. She’d chosen this, she thought as she signed the register. There was no cause for unease. And yet, with a few words spoken and a signature on a piece of paper, she’d taken on a lifetime of duties and expectations. Perhaps pleasures and joys as well. Of course, those. She loved James. She’d dreamed of being his wife. But she hadn’t thought it would feel so…tentative even as it was also a personal revolution.

And then, in less than an hour’s time, it was done. In the eyes of society, her status was changed. She was a married woman and a peeress of the realm. Their small party came out of the church and paused on the cobblestones before it.

“Where are you off to now?” asked her father, once again as if it was any ordinary morning and she might be planning to make calls or take a walk in the park.

This was the other dilemma. Cecelia didn’t know. Ned had picked up a valise she and her maid had packed and taken it away, but he hadn’t known anything about James’s plan. And James had evaded her questions about it in the most vexing way. The immediate future was a blank. A touch of dizziness assailed her. She had never been in this position in her life. She was so accustomed to making order.

“Your chariot awaits,” James said. Looking terribly handsome under the midmorning sun, he offered his arm.

Feeling oddly in need of the support, Cecelia took it. He led her to a smart traveling carriage. The others trailed after them. “Why does it have someone else’s coat of arms on the door?” she asked.

“I borrowed it,” James said.

“Rather than hire a post chaise?”

“As you see.”

Did he sound irritated? She didn’t want that. Their years of disputes over a wide variety of issues came back to her. More than a few had ended with one of them—or, James really—stomping out and going off to cool down. He hated losing an argument. But they no longer had separate homes to retreat to. Or any livable home at all, Cecelia noted. What did that mean for discussion?

Suddenly, every word seemed more of a risk, weighted with signs for the future. Would she be less at ease married to him than she had been when single? Did one have to be more…polite once married? If she lost the ability to talk easily to a man she’d known, and debated, most of her life… That would be distressing.

He handed her into the vehicle and climbed up to sit beside her. They said their goodbyes, the coachman signaled the team, and they set off. Cecelia watched her father and aunt and Henry Deeping recede and then disappear as they rounded a corner. She turned back, and became acutely conscious of James’s broad shoulders against the seat back, his pantaloon-clad leg not far from her skirts. They’d sat as close as this on drawing room sofas, she supposed. But they’d never traveled alone together in a carriage. They would be side by side here for…she had no idea how long. “Where are we going?” she asked him.

“It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises.”

“Of course you do.”

How could he say that? Could he have failed to notice that most surprises in Cecelia’s life had been near disasters? Times when her father had neglected some important business matter, which had then become a full-blown emergency. Times when James himself had descended like a horde of marauders, full of exigent demands. If he didn’t know her any better than this, how were they to get on together?

“What about the jugglers on your birthday that time?” James asked. “You were delighted by them.”

“Because I arranged for them to come.”

“You did?”

“Yes. And then I pretended to be surprised.”

James stared at her. “That’s…a bit…sad.”

It probably had been. But she’d been missing her mother so much, and it was the sort of silly thing her mother would have arranged. So she had done it instead. It hadn’t helped with the grief, of course. It had surprised her father. And in the end he’d liked the performance more than she did. “Who did you think had hired them?” she asked.

“Well, I…”

She saw consciousness of the timing occur to him—the year after her mother’s death. She saw him recall her father’s heedlessness.

“I suppose I didn’t think about it,” he replied.

Of course he hadn’t. It wasn’t the sort of thing James considered. He’d called that day, she remembered, in the midst of the juggling and stayed a while to admire the performers’ skills. He’d given her a bracelet for her birthday, a gift more suited to a grown-up lady, which someone probably should have ordered her to refuse. Fortunately, no one bothered because she’d adored it. It was years later that she discovered his birthday visit had been accidental. He’d come to wrangle over some trust matter and found himself at her sparse festivities. The bracelet had been intended for someone else—the kind of female she was not to know about. She’d meanly enjoyed taking it from that faceless lady. But today she found a familiar annoyance with his self-absorption threatening to creep in. “You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

“To the estate of a friend of mine. I thought the place would amuse you.”

Cecelia was puzzled by the word. How should an estate be funny? “Amuse?” she echoed.

“It’s a bit out of the ordinary.”

“Will your friend be there?” She hadn’t planned to share her honeymoon with a stranger. But then she hadn’t been allowed to plan anything!

“In the house,” James replied with an airy gesture.

“In the…” Cecelia frowned. “Do you mean that we will not be in the house?”

“Not the main house.”

“A guest cottage?”

“I really think it would be better as a surprise. Descriptions don’t do the place justice.”

“Is this like the time you took Papa and me to see that string of racehorses you wished to buy? And the black one tried to bite me?”

“Nothing like that!” James was half-laughing, half-insulted. “I really think you might trust me.”

She had promised to have and hold, to love and cherish, but not actually to trust him. She met his blue eyes and nearly lost herself in them. She supposed that trust was implied in those other vows. In this case, she had no other choice. “How far is it?”

“Three hours from London. Probably a bit less with this team.”

She nodded and settled back.

“You’ll like it, Cecelia. I promise.”

It was a day of promises. And after all, she had never known James to break his word.

He reached under the seat and pulled a large basket from behind his feet. “I have not forgotten the wedding breakfast.”

He set the basket opposite them, opened it, and began pulling items out and unwrapping the napkins that held them like a magician performing tricks. “Bread rolls, ham and hard-cooked eggs, a flask of tea and one of lemonade, strawberries.” He set things in the upturned lid of the basket so that they wouldn’t fall. “And of course a wedding cake.” He unveiled a small round cake with white icing, slightly smudged by the covering.

His triumphant expression made Cecelia smile. “Where did you get all this?”

“I ordered it from Gunter’s.”

“They have a set wedding breakfast basket?”

“Not at all. I carefully chose each and every item. Give me some credit.”

He had planned. She hadn’t trusted him to, but he’d obviously taken some care on arrangements.

“You adore strawberries,” he added.

This was true.

He held one out to her by its stem, wiggled it a little.

Cecelia leaned forward, took the berry in her teeth, and bit down. It was sweet and a little tart and completely delicious. She licked her lips. “Perfect.” She looked up and found James staring. Not into her eyes. Was he looking at her mouth? The heat in his gaze made her flush. They had habits of talking, and disputing, built over the years. These fell into place automatically when they were together. But after this morning, they had a new relationship as well. He might sweep her into his arms. Now, if he wished to. And his expression suggested that he did, very much. Then tonight…

James smiled—lazily, teasingly—as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

Cecelia’s pulse quickened. She’d married him for this, too. She cared about him. But no other man had ever roused her as James did—his presence, his wit, the paltry few kisses they’d shared. She would demand many more of those. She met his gaze with that certainty.

He blinked. His smile widened, becoming more warmly appreciative. He gave her a small nod before saying, “Perhaps a bit of ham on a roll?”

Cecelia had a moment of acute disappointment. Then she realized that embraces in a moving carriage were probably awkward. Particularly with a basket of viands ready to spill. She had a sudden picture of the two of them, wildly entwined, crusted with bits of wedding cake and crushed strawberries. That would certainly enliven their arrival at his friend’s home. The idea was ludicrous, and strangely stimulating.

“Does ham amuse you?” James asked.

“Not ham.” Perhaps she would tell him her vision, later. When carriages and clothing were irrelevant. Her breath caught. “I should like some, thank you.”

He sliced the roll with the knife provided, added ham and a dab of mustard from a tiny china pot that closed with a ribbon tie, and held the result out to her. Cecelia took it and bit down. “Good.” She was hungry.

James served her a neatly sliced egg, more strawberries, lemonade from the flask. Gunter’s had foreseen all their needs, providing small cups without handles.

“We must have the cake,” said James. “It’s bad luck not to eat a wedding cake.”

“I have never heard that.”

“Well, perhaps it’s not true. But it should be.” He cut a morsel of the cake and held it out as he had the strawberry.

Cecelia leaned closer and took it, feeling his fingers on her lips as a shivery caress. The confection was dark and chewy, dense with dried fruit. “Aren’t you having any?” she asked when she’d swallowed.

He gave her the knife.

Cecelia cut a bit of cake and offered it to him. His taking of it felt like a kiss on her fingertips.

He licked a trace of icing from his lower lip and said, “Good.”

She was not the sort of woman who would ever swoon, Cecelia told herself. But her surroundings seemed to be swaying more than could be accounted for by the bouncing of the carriage. Was this what people meant when they said their senses were reeling?

“Tea?” James asked. His eyes were laughing.

“I–I don’t care for it without milk.”

“Oh, there is milk. Gunter’s would not let us down.” He showed her a small jar.

“They have thought of everything.”

“I made them a list,” he replied. “Detailed. Comprehensive. One might even say meticulous.” He raised dark eyebrows.

Cecelia laughed. Lists had been a point of contention between them for years. Cecelia found them critical. James claimed that truly important matters stuck in one’s brain, and anything else deserved to be forgotten. She had called him scatterbrained. He had called her obsessive. “I commend you,” she said, adding a dollop of milk to the cup of tea he had poured for her. She sipped. It was only barely warm, but she would not complain.

He prepared his own cup and drank. “Ugh. It’s gone cold.”

“The thought is what counts.”

“Not with dreadful tea.” He tossed the contents of his cup out the open carriage window and reached for hers.

She pulled it back. “I shall drink it.”

“Nonsense.” He pulled the cup from her and dumped it outside. “You may have more lemonade if you are thirsty.”

“May?”

“You cannot really wish for cold tea, Cecelia.”

She didn’t. But she didn’t care for his dictatorial tone either. She started to tell him so, then stopped. She didn’t want to be always arguing with her…husband. James was her husband! She began placing the uneaten food in the basket. Surely, with time, they would find a way to settle points without contention.

***

They arrived in midafternoon, sweeping through an open gate guarded by rampant stone lions in a long gray wall.

A gravel drive stretched ahead to a large manor house in the distance, but they took a turn into a narrower lane well before reaching it, passed into a thick grove of trees and through another smaller wall into a lovely garden. The scent of flowers followed them around a curve.

“There it is,” said James.

Cecelia leaned out the carriage window and gazed at a round stone tower perhaps thirty feet across. It was three stories high with crenellations at the top.

James got out and handed her down from the carriage. A manservant came out of the tower and took their valises inside. When he returned with an inquiring look, James indicated the basket inside the vehicle. He took that as well. “They are expecting you at the main stables,” James told the coachman. The driver touched his hat brim and drove away.

“What is this place?” asked Cecelia.

“It was a ruin from some centuries ago,” James replied. “My friend’s grandfather had it restored for…his own purposes.”

“Nefarious, I assume?”

“He was apparently rather a loose screw.”

“Is that slang for a libertine?” Cecelia asked.

“Ah, yes. I shouldn’t have…”

She waved his scruples aside. “Oh, I may know these things now that I am a married woman. So your friend keeps it up?”

“Well, he has not torn it down. I believe he occasionally lends it to…”

“Friends who require a secret retreat,” Cecelia finished when he hesitated. “And how do you know that?”

“Not from personal experience, I assure you.”

Yet he had experience, Cecelia acknowledged. He’d had mistresses; she knew that, though he had never flaunted them. She, on the other hand, had been circumscribed by the rules of society, which wanted her to learn as little as possible of physical passion. Though her aunt had given her more freedom than most, she was still unequal in this.

“Shall we go in?” asked James.

He led her through the door into the ground level. It was one large round room with walls of bare stone, a flagstone floor, and a wooden ceiling. The space was very plain. It held a large table with several chairs around it. Their basket was set on top. The only other furnishings were several closed chests. There was a small empty fireplace on the right and a stone stair curving up on the left. This was not promising. James’s friend had told him that the tower was quite comfortable. James began to worry that they had very different definitions of what that meant. “This is where the servants creep in to leave meals and take them away,” James said.

“Creep?”

“They are instructed not to talk to guests unless they are addressed.”

Cecelia looked around. “That is a bit…odd.”

He had thought it sounded romantic. Marvelously private. Now that they were here, he wasn’t so sure. Had he brought her to a medieval hermitage for their honeymoon? Well, if it was no good, they would return to London, which would be an exhausting first day for a marriage. “Let us look upstairs,” he said.

They walked up the curving steps and, to James’s relief, came out into a luxurious sitting room on the next level. Comfortable-looking sofas and armchairs stood on lush Turkish rugs. There was a small table with two chairs under a narrow window and colorful tapestries on the walls. James threw his hat and gloves onto its surface. Though the day was fine, a fire burned in the small fireplace, counteracting the chill of the thick stone walls.

The stair continued upward, and James ran quickly up to the top story. It held a great, carved four-poster bed, wardrobes, and a dressing table, all in dark wood. More fine rugs dotted the wooden floor. A fine chamber, and a relief.

“Someone has left us lovely flowers,” Cecelia said when he returned to her. She was bent over sniffing a bouquet on the table. She’d removed her bonnet and gloves. “Your friend’s wife?”

“He has none. The housekeeper, I suppose.” There had been flowers upstairs, too.

“Ah.” Cecelia straightened and looked at him.

An awkward silence fell. Some married couples were alone for the first time on their wedding night, James thought. He and Cecelia were far more fortunate, being so well acquainted. And yet… He knew her as confidante and adversary, not as wife or lover. And the change felt more complicated because of their long history than it might have been with a near stranger. They’d had countless emotional discussions but hardly ever touched. Perhaps four times in thirteen years. There were those kisses though!

“Shall we walk in the garden?” Cecelia asked.

“If you wish.”

“Only if you want to.”

“I am happy to if you would like…” James stopped. They never stumbled about like this. Their exchanges had always been forthright. He’d simply said whatever he liked. Perhaps he had done so without giving enough thought to her feelings. He’d been more concerned with how to alter her position and make her do as he asked about the trust. And she’d more than held her own. That was one of the things he admired about her. But now their situation was different. Uncharted territory, he thought, and wondered if a honeymoon far away from all they knew was a mistake. She was gazing at him, as if waiting for some important word.

“Is something wrong?” Cecelia said.

“Why did you change your mind about marriage?” he asked her.

She looked surprised, started to speak, then closed her lips again.

It didn’t seem such a difficult question. Should she need to think it over?

Cecelia moved across the small distance between them, put her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him.

James’s pulse leapt in response. Desire shot through him, and he pulled her close. Cecelia laced her arms around his neck and melted against his body, her lips eagerly responsive. Here was the answer to all his questions. This was their new way to be together, and a glorious way it was. He gave his hands license to explore as he urged her toward the stairs.

The damn steps were so narrow that they had to go up single file, but when they reached the top he swept her up and carried her to the bed. Setting her down in a froth of silk, he joined her there and plunged them into another dizzying kiss.

They pressed close, held tight. Their legs grew tangled in her skirts and petticoats. When they drew a little apart, panting, she said, “I never knew that clothes could be so inconvenient.”

Not to mention his boots, James noted. He had to be rid of the things, and he wasn’t used to pulling them off himself. “The best approach is to be ruthless,” he said.

“Rip them off, you mean?”

James laughed. She was a wonder, a marvel. He stood up beside the bed and shucked off his coat, tossing it over the back of an armchair. He pulled away his neckcloth and sent it flying in the same direction. In shirt and pantaloons, he went to a chair, sat down, and yanked off his wretched boots. Then he rose and faced her again.

Cecelia had slipped off the bed, a little wide-eyed, but smiling. She stepped out of her shoes. Her fingers went to the buttons at the front of her gown. James wondered if she’d chosen that garment because it fastened in front. The idea of such forethought enflamed him further.

She wriggled out of her dress, letting it fall at her feet. She reached around and caught the string of her stays, pulling on it. Once, and again. “The knot is stuck,” she said.

He went to unfasten them, letting his fingertips trail along her arm and shoulder as she pulled the stays off and untied her petticoats. Muslin and ruffles fell away, and there she was in only her thin shift, which was nearly transparent in tantalizing spots, and her silk stockings.

James pulled his shirt over his head and discarded it before he knelt at her feet. He let his hands slide gently up her right leg. To the garter that held up her stocking and then higher. Her breath caught in the most satisfying way. Slowly, his eyes on hers, he eased the garter down and off, flicking her stocking away. Then he repeated the maneuver with the other. Cecelia gripped his arm and urged him upright, pressing herself into his arms once again.

His kisses were more intoxicating than anything she’d experienced before. As his hands strayed over her, Cecelia felt as if every part of her body flamed to life. It didn’t matter that she’d never done this before. Her impulses seemed a reliable guide.

He took hold of her shift and raised it. She lifted her arms like a dancer in the ballet and let him take it away. She was naked before him—James, her longtime love, her maddening friend, and now her husband. He shed the rest of his clothes and was the same, so very handsome in his natural state. She’d seen him in all sorts of guises but never this way. There was nothing between them but curiosity, history, and desire.

He lifted her onto the bed again. They twined together, burning skin to skin. And now his kisses trailed down her neck and shoulder to her breasts while he ran his hands along her sides. Cecelia shivered with longing, the sensation almost too intense. She yearned for him, ached for him.

As if he knew, his touch went to the center of that craving and tantalized until he fulfilled it in a dazzling, shuddering wave. The glory of it still echoed along her nerves when he came to her and found his own release. Holding him afterward, she hoped it had been as wonderful.

She had married the man she loved, Cecelia thought in that moment. She had no more to ask of life.