Chapter Eight
Alec installed himself in front of the fireplace, long legs crossed together at the ankle, one arm dangling over the side of the chair, the one with the wine.
Every so often he raised it to his lips.
Before long Mrs. Yates appeared. He declined the meal she offered to bring, but stopped her when she would have left.
“My wife is established in the duchess’s chamber?”
“Aye, your grace. Aggie is helping her unpack her belongings.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Yates. You’ll see that the staff fulfills any requests that she has from now on?”
“Of course, your grace.”
The housekeeper bobbed a curtsy and left. Alec decided wryly that there would be a good bit of gossip in the servants’ quarters tonight.
He stared into the fireplace. It wasn’t lit, for the day had been warm. He took another swallow of wine, pondering. No, not pondering, he decided with a rare touch of self-deprecation. He was brooding. And he was a man who brooded but rarely.
Lord above, he was married. Married! The very thought set his teeth on edge. He chided himself bitterly for his lack of self-control.
It wasn’t that he was averse to marriage.
It wasn’t that he was determined to remain a bachelor.
He was attentive to his title and his duties.
He would never disregard his responsibilities.
Family was important to him. After all, he’d been raised in a warm, loving family.
He wanted an heir someday, with a woman with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life.
He wanted a child—children!—however many he was blessed with.
Children who would know the same happiness here at Gleneden as he.
Which brought up the question…how the hell was he going to explain his sudden marriage to his family? Perhaps it was a blessing that none of them was expected at Gleneden soon. His mother had written that she planned to spend the entire summer in Brighton.
So what was he to say? That it was love at first sight? he thought mockingly. More like lust at first sight.
All those hours in the coach with her today…
She appeared so innocent when she pretended to sleep.
She hadn’t fooled him in the slightest. He knew she was awake.
Then when she finally did sleep, she looked so uncomfortable, her head angled against the side of the coach.
He’d finally tugged her down upon the seat, while he’d have very much liked to tug her down upon him.
He jerked his mind away from the thought.
She affected him more than she should have.
Far more than he wanted. He fingered his cheek, the place where she’d slapped him.
Slapped him. He’d been slugged before, by his sister Anne.
By Aidan. When they were all children. But he’d never before been slapped!
He was still astounded that the lovely Lady Maura had dared.
His mouth thinned.
Or perhaps he wasn’t. Alec considered himself a good judge of character; he wasn’t easily fooled.
He wasn’t swayed by Maura’s maidenly display of tearful regret that day in the baron’s study.
He suspected she was a woman of spirit, a spirit that spilled into what could only be called headstrong and strong-willed.
It wasn’t a cowering little miss he’d wed.
He fought to curb a rising fury. He didn’t like his hand being forced.
And, he reflected blackly, it was the manner in which this marriage had come about!
He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been manipulated.
Too late he saw through her ploy. The beauteous lady wanted to marry a rich man.
What better way than to find her way into his bed, and be caught together in the morning?
She had calculated well, a master in her role as temptress.
Oh, aye, he had been tempted by the sultry beauty, irresistibly tempted. He had played his role, never guessing that he was being played.
And he had lost. Well, he told himself scathingly, he’d fallen ripe and right into her hands.
Never mind that he’d been all too willing to take what the little vixen offered.
Never mind that the last thing he expected to bring home to Gleneden was a bride—a calculating one at that!
The two of them had bested him. Maura…and her uncle Murdoch.
Seething, he drank a toast to the two of them.
His gaze lifted to the ceiling. He took his time. An hour had passed. He chided himself bitterly for his lack of self-control, then poured another glass of wine. He was on edge. He wanted her. But he didn’t want to want her.
Perhaps a half hour more passed. He’d made his intentions perfectly clear. He was almost tempted to let Maura stew—and wait, long into the night.
Almost, but not quite.
No, he decided.
A grim little smile curled his lips. After all, his bride was expecting him.
And what a shame it would be to disappoint her.
He drained the last of his wine. His boot heels echoed as he climbed the steps.
Upstairs, in the newest wing, the corridor was laid with carpet.
She wouldn’t hear his approach. She’d been installed in the ducal suite, the duchess’s chamber, the chamber his mother had never used, for she always slept with his father. Always, until the day he died.
He raised a hand, poised to knock on her door.
His jaw bunched suddenly. Bloody hell! he thought. What need was there to announce himself in his own home?
He turned the handle and stepped inside.
The door clicked shut behind him. It appeared his bride hadn’t heard him.
She was bent over a drawer in the armoire, the round shape of her delectable little rump clearly visible.
It appeared she hadn’t heard him, or else she didn’t care.
Oh, but she would care if she knew the thoughts that were running wild through his mind.
Tonight’s game belonged to him, he decided with a measure of satisfaction.
He would enjoy seeing her squirm. He would enjoy turning the tables on her and teaching her a well-deserved lesson.
He’d been a fool in Ireland, allowing his desire for her to control him.
She had fooled him once; he wouldn’t allow it to happen twice.
Something inside him relished the idea of making her think he would bed her tonight.
He wouldn’t. Not yet. He was too angry for that, too full of resentment. He was going to make her wait. Discomfit her. Keep her off kilter a bit. Make her wonder when…
“Good evening, Irish.”
She whirled. Her hand went to her throat. He’d startled her, he realized. But her recovery was quick.
“I didn’t hear you knock,” she said coolly.
“That’s because I didn’t.”
He allowed his gaze to travel over her slowly. Her nightgown was fashioned of plain white cotton, its only adornment a bit of lace about the sleeves and hem.
Was her simple attire meant to convince him she wasn’t a fortune-hunter?
He didn’t believe it for an instant. He’d been a blind fool in Ireland!
She had set the trap and he had taken the bait.
And now she had what she wanted. A title, his name, money, security for the rest of her life.
She’d surrendered her virginity for a life of ease.
And it wasn’t as if he could cast her out, he thought with a bitter twist.
He advanced farther into the room, while Maura, aware of his presence, reached for her robe. Oh, so now the modest maid had reappeared!
She jerked the sash of her robe tight. It only served to accentuate the smallness of her waist, clinging to the shape of her breasts—of which he could see the points of her nipples.
He was unwittingly amused. Her attire was of little consequence.
No, her simple gown didn’t matter—did she realize the provocation she presented?
Silk and lace would have made her no less desirable.
Or perhaps she did know. Perhaps it was just another calculated move on her part. Perhaps she simply didn’t care.
Her expression declared her irritation. Oh, the haughty duchess indeed!
“Your room suits you?” His tone was politeness itself.
“Very much, thank you.” She was coolly dignified, the little cheat! “It was kind of you to allow Aggie to help me unpack. And I’ve not yet had the chance to explore. Is that a dressing room?” She gestured toward the door next to the armoire.
“No.” It was amazing how one single word could give such immense satisfaction. “It’s my bedchamber. And most convenient, Irish. I can visit your bed whenever I like. And you can visit mine whenever you like.”
Very deliberately he stripped off his coat and tossed it on the chair next to the mirror.
Her eyes narrowed. “I wonder, then, your grace, what you are doing in my room. We are both aware that ours is a marriage compelled—”
“But it is a marriage nonetheless.” Casually, Alec began to unbutton his shirt. It landed atop his jacket. “And I promised you a night of marital bliss. I merely wish to set about the bedding of my bride with husbandly vigor. I promise you, you’ll not be disappointed.”
Defiance flared in those amazingly colored green eyes. “A boast, Scotsman?”
“A fact, Irish.”
She glared her disdain. But her tongue came out to wet her lips. She did that when she was nervous, he noted. As well she should be. Despite that, she did not shirk. No, she displayed no sign of giving way.
“You have already seen to the plucking of the fruit, your grace. It can be plucked only once.”
One corner of his mouth slanted up. He found her choice of words amusing.
“Therefore,” she continued, “you need not feel any obligation to provide me with a night of marital bliss, as you call it. I relieve you of the necessity. Besides, it was a long journey, was it not? I find I am quite fatigued.”
“A pity, for I am not.” He made the declaration with great pleasure.