Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Duke Gregor
“My lady.” When, at last, I see the rose voile of her gown, I feel acute relief.
The Duchess offers me a small, private smile, that gives me more pause than pleasure.
“Forgive me if I caused you alarm. That was not my intent.”
Something has changed about Her Grace, though I last saw her last but minutes ago. I cannot put my finger upon the cause, but the way she looks upon me has altered.
“I fear you have missed the waltz.”
“Oh.” She turns her head and gazes at the dance floor, where the dancers are now performing the reel. “I must beg your pardon, Your Grace.”
“Not at all,” I say as I study her. The news of missing the dance does not seem to dampen her countenance in the slightest, proving my suspicions correct. But it puzzles me—she was gone longer than I thought she would be, certainly, but not long enough for anything serious to occur.
“Perhaps… if it is agreeable to you, Your Grace, we might retire early?”
Her request perplexes me. I have watched her at many balls, and her family is always one of the last to depart. “You are not enjoying yourself, my lady?”
She lowers her gaze demurely. “It is not that, Your Grace, only… I wish for some time alone before it is time to sleep.”
When she raises her eyes to mine once more, they are filled to the brim with emotion I cannot name. “Of course, my lady, if that is what you desire, I shall have the carriage brought around at once.”
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
I depart to find the Crown Prince, who is now seated on the dais draped with crimson velvet. The King and Queen appear to be engaged in conversation. I halt at a respectful distance and bow, holding the pose until I attract their notice.
“Your Grace! Do approach, if you please.” The Queen’s voice floats toward me, regal and warm.
I raise my head. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” I say before approaching.
However, before I can make apologies to their majesties for our departure, she speaks. “Please, talk some sense into this thick-headed son of mine, Your Grace.”
I look to James, who is clearly quite bored and not bothering to hide the fact. I keep my tone light and jovial as I say, “It would give me great pleasure to be of service to you, Your Highness. Please, tell me how I might serve my queen.”
She tries admirably to keep her smile from blossoming, but in the end, she loses and rewards me with a small smile.
I have been flattering her since I was little more than a child, and as such, I have become quite proficient at it.
She sits tall and proud upon her throne, flanked by her husband and son.
The three make quite a picture with their fine clothes, furs, and jewels that catch the light.
Yet, it is evident to anyone who might chance a closer look that the Crown Prince is quite miserable.
The queen leans forward, her dark blue eyes shining. “Perhaps you might be so kind as to instruct my son of all the joy to be had from married life.”
This does take me by surprise. I have far more success in hiding my thoughts than the queen, however. “I would be delighted, Your Majesty.” I look to my friend whose countenance is stony.
“And if we do not speak of joy,” the King speaks up, his tone brisk and thorny, “then duty would suffice.”
“I do not believe His Grace came to speak of any such thing,” the prince replies.
“Yes, but if you will not listen to us then perhaps a word from His Grace—”
“The boy is right,” the King says, though it appears the words leave a bitter taste upon his tongue. “We will have His Grace and his charming wife to the palace later.” He reaches over to pat his wife’s hand with tender affection. Clearly they are united in their displeasure toward their son.
“What might we do for you, Your Grace?” the queen asks in a honeyed, silken tone.
“I only wished to make apologies for Her Grace and myself, as she finds herself feeling unwell. With your permission, we would take our leave.”
The Queen gazes upon me, her eyes nearly as familiar to me as her son’s. She inclines her head slightly. “Of course. I shall pray for the Duchess. May both of you be well.”
Bowing my gratitude, I give my friend one last parting glance. I know there is scarcely anything I can say or do to help him, but I feel sorry for him nonetheless.
“Your Grace—we shall have you for tea soon.” The Queen’s voice carries so that many present will surely overhear.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my wife make a low, sweeping curtsey that few women can manage. It makes my heart swell with pride. Making another bow, I join my wife. “Well done,” I murmur to her. “I did not see you follow me.”
“I know how these things are done.” She does not trouble to disguise her sigh.
I offer my arm but am distracted by my own thoughts. Does she mean to imply that I do not know the way of things? That my common birth makes me unfit to attend such an occasion?
One of the grooms must have alerted our coachman, for our carriage awaits us outside, ready and waiting. I help Her Grace into it myself before ascending the stairs and taking my seat opposite her. Neither of us speak a word as we wait for our journey home to begin.
Duchess Freya
The entire length of the journey back to Fairwynd, I scheme how to put the Princess Amelia’s words into action. How can I win the game we are playing? In truth, before my discussion with the royal ladies, I had not viewed it as such, and I see I have been playing the fool.
We are both wagering something, it would seem. I wish for him to consummate this marriage—no, he must. Without that…
Even in my own mind, it does not feel safe to contemplate.
And he’s wagering my need is so great that I will give in. Why? His earlier words come back to me. I will set the course for this union between us… straight from the onset. If you do not wish to confess the fullness of your feelings for me…
When I first heard them, I felt shocked, with outrage nipping at its heels. In truth, I am still shocked, for I did not imagine marriage to be so fraught with difficulty.
Why must I be the one to confess my feelings? I shall do so when he is honest about his, which surely must exist if even the royals at the palace take notice!
Even before we arrive, I devise a scheme that, if executed carefully, as Her Highness cautioned, may yet secure my future.
It must. For everything I ever hope to have—both for myself, and my child—depends upon its success.
“Are you finding your health restored, my lady?” the duke asks as soon as we enter our home.
“Yes, my lord, I am feeling myself once more.” I meet his eyes and hold his gaze for but a moment before I lower my eyes to the plush rug. I make a show of studying the intricate scrollwork pattern until the duke grasps my gloved hand.
His touch sends a spark through me that I do my best to conceal.
“I shall like to see you fully recovered, my lady. Might I escort you to your apartment?”
This is the very opportunity I require, and though it is done with great difficulty, I do not allow my delight to show on my face. After all, there is much to be done if I am yet to triumph. “I would find that most agreeable, Your Grace.”
My husband leads me by the arm and leads me through our home and up the long staircase. I hardly take notice of my surroundings, though they are still new to me. The gleaming surfaces, the gilded doorways, the ornate carvings on the walls. Everything fades into a blur, and I feel only my urgency.
It is true need, yes, but there is something more.
A thirst I have yet to satisfy—a craving that makes my blood burn inside me.
I must force myself to remain calm, though I wish nothing more than to hurry my step.
For now that I know what I must do, I am most impatient to satisfy this ache that has gnawed at my insides for far too long.
I turn my head ever so slightly to glimpse my husband, attempting to discern if he suspects anything is afoot. His steady gaze is focused straight ahead, and I am grateful for it, for in assessing his fine cheekbones, his hard jawline, my pulse gallops, and I fear it shows on my face.
I force my gaze away at once, but it is already too late. My confidence is badly shaken. I cannot understand it—why my body seems to yearn for him so. He is certainly not kind to me, and yet, my pulse flutters at his nearness…my ungoverned heart skips, then beats so that it is nearly unbearable.
“My lady.” The duke opens the door and stands back to allow me to enter ahead of him.
For a moment, I hesitate. How can I be certain he will follow?
Get ahold of yourself, Freya! You are of Denham House! When have you ever gotten less than your due? He is your husband… take what is yours.
“Would you care to linger a moment, my lord?” I inquire once I am well inside.
He has just made his bow, but at my words he looks up, swiftly assessing my face. “I would be delighted, my lady.”
The charm in his words ought to warm me, and yet, I am seized by a sudden shiver. He is a most unsettling man indeed.
You shall master him. Do not shirk back now.
Bowing my head lest he see the emotions at war on my face, I stand aside and wait to see if he will enter.
The soft snick of the door gives me my answer, and my heart skips another traitorous beat, threatening to make me lose sight of all that is at stake. Glancing to the corner, I see Kate standing in the shadows—available should I need her, but clearly sensing the weight of this moment.
Somehow, the sight of her gives me the courage that stiffens my resolve. I must do this—for myself, the child I carry, and if that were not enough, for my entire household. It all depends on me. On this night.
I lift my head and give His Grace my most inviting smile. I have never looked at him so, and realization glimmers upon his features followed swiftly by a gleaming hunger in his dark eyes that causes a flutter low in my stomach.