Chapter Nine #2
***
Gerrit was bloody exhausted by the time the harrowing wedding breakfast came to an end.
Chatham’s speech had been blessedly brief. But after the duke had come his cousin and former heir, Andrew Derrick.
Gerrit had not been able to decipher the thrust of several of Derrick’s obscure comments but—judging by all the laughter aimed in Gerrit’s direction—they must have had something to do with Gerrit.
In general, he was not bothered about being the subject of mockery.
Indeed, taunting was something he had lived with all his life and learned to tolerate.
However, it seemed the outside of enough that he was forced to endure such abuse at his own wedding breakfast—and from Derrick in particular—but Gerrit gritted his teeth and bore it.
His new wife scowled at most of what Derrick said, so perhaps Gerrit was not the only one at the table without a sense of humor.
Four more people spoke after Derrick, but Gerrit stopped listening, his thoughts on the more pleasant subject of Briarly, where he and his new wife would be retiring for the summer. He missed his home with an almost tangible ache. He’d had to—
“Your Grace?”
Gerrit looked up to find Chatham staring at him. “Yes?” he barked.
Chatham raised his eyebrows and gave Gerrit a meaningful look. Although what it meant, he wasn’t sure. Unless… Good God! Did the man expect him to make a speech?
Before Gerrit could do something rash like shout, not bloody likely! the Duchess of Chatham stood and drew the attention away from him.
The tall, pale woman blandly regarded the guests, as if she had only just now noticed them and quietly murmured, “Let us retire to the drawing room.”
After a moment of stunned surprise, people stood and began leaving the room.
The duchess turned her opaque gaze on Gerrit. “Nobody will expect the bride and groom to stay much longer, Your Grace.”
Gerrit gave her a genuinely grateful look. “Thank you for organizing this celebration.”
She merely nodded and turned away, a woman of admirably few words.
When he entered the drawing room he found his wife beside Andrew Derrick, listening to something he was saying.
Gerrit did not bother to wait for the man to stop speaking. Instead, he raised his voice and talked over him. “Are you ready to leave, Your Grace?”
His wife’s face flushed at his rudeness, but Derrick chuckled.
“Eager to get your new wife alone, are you Dulln—er Dulverton?”
Gerrit had planned to continue ignoring Derrick, but the irritating cad had made that impossible, so he lifted his gaze to Derrick’s laughing blue eyes and said, “Yes.”
Derrick blinked, either at Gerrit’s brevity or perhaps he could see the animus in Gerrit’s gaze.
He did not hate Derrick for his endless jests and digs over the years, nor even for being one of the many men who had fucked Christina.
No, what he truly loathed him for was lacking the tact and decency to absent himself from Gerrit’s bloody wedding.
“Er, just so,” Derrick said in his hail-fellow-well-met voice.
He kissed Kathryn on the cheek. “Do not forget to write.” He cut Gerrit an unreadable look.
“Take care of my little sister, Dulverton.” This time his annoying smirk was nowhere in evidence.
Instead, there was a hard edge to his voice before he strolled across the room to join another cluster of people.
“Sister?” he repeated.
Kathryn gave him an odd look. Gerrit suspected he would be getting many such looks from her in the years to come.
“Well?” he prodded irritably.
“He is Chatham’s cousin, so I consider him family.”
Gerrit contemplated telling her that she was welcome to write Derrick ten times a day if she chose, but she had better not ask the man to visit.
He decided that was a conversation for when they were alone.
He held out his arm. “Come, let us take our leave.”
She lightly laid her hand on his proffered sleeve.
Gerrit knew it was only his imagination, but for a moment it felt as if her palm burned through his coat and into his skin like a brand.
***
Katie’s brand-new husband stared broodingly out the window during the five-minute drive to Dulverton House. She could not blame him for being annoyed. She had wanted to slap Andrew for his deliberate slip with Dulverton’s wretched nickname. And everyone called her immature.
Katie pulled her attention from Dulverton and looked out the window as the carriage rolled to a halt. The entire staff appeared to have lined themselves up outside of Dulverton House.
“Goodness,” Katie said, shaking off her sour mood. “Have they just been standing there all this time?”
Dulverton looked at her as if she were an imbecile. “I sent one of my servants from Chatham’s house twenty minutes ago to alert them of our imminent arrival.”
Katie felt like an idiot. Perhaps that last glass of champagne had been ill advised, after all.
Servants clad in coffee-brown livery with gold lacing had approached the carriage, but the duke opened the door, hopped out, and put down the steps himself before handing her out.
Four footmen flanked the carriage, each tall and handsome with auburn hair and light blue eyes. It was tradition in most aristocratic households to engage handsome, physically similar footmen, but never had Katie seen four men who looked so alike.
A tall, bone-thin man who could only be the butler bowed low. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace. I am Willow.” He turned to the older woman beside him. “This is Mrs. Kent, your housekeeper.”
“Welcome to Dulverton House, Your Grace,” Mrs. Kent said, dropping a low curtsey.
And so it went on down the line, all the way to Billy Pickle, the boot black.
The procedure took so long that Katie was sober by the time Dulverton led her through the cavernous foyer and up the staircase.
“I believe your maid is in your chambers,” the duke said as they ascended the stairs. “Would you care to rest for a few hours before dinner, or perhaps take a tour of the house?”
If Katie crawled into her bed at this point, she might not be able to crawl back out of it. “I only need a few minutes to refresh myself and then I’d like to see the house.”
“I will send Mrs. Kent up to you in three-quarters of an hour, if that is sufficient?”
She’d thought Dulverton would want to show his wife his own house. How foolish of her. “That will be fine.”
He stopped in front of a massive set of double doors and opened the one on the right. “I will see you at dinner,” he said, and then bowed.
Katie watched him walk a short distance down the hall—which seemed oddly empty, now that she was looking around—and disappear through an identical set of double doors that must lead to the master’s chambers.
But then Katie noticed that all the rooms appeared to have grand double doors, even those at the end of the corridor, which would usually lead to a servant staircase.
Katie shrugged aside the thought and shut the door, leaning up against it. So, that was it, then. She was married. And to a man who exhibited about as much emotion as the slabs of wood that comprised his many doors.
“My lady—er, Your Grace?”
Katie looked up at the sound of Becky’s voice and heaved a sigh of relief. “I am glad to see a friendly face, Becks.”
Becky’s eyebrows shot up. “Were the servants not friendly to you?”
“I misspoke—I should have said a friendly familiar face.”
Becky nodded, looking distracted.
“Is something amiss?” Katie asked as she stripped off the mint-green gloves that matched her wedding gown.
“No, no, nothing is wrong. In fact, everything is grand.” Becky gave an uncharacteristically giddy laugh. “It is just—well, I have quite risen in the world, is all.”
“Risen? Oh, you mean you’re higher up the table?” Katie handed Becky her the gloves before reaching for her hatpin.
“Yes, indeed. I am quite a grand personage now, Your Grace.”
“Must you call me that when we are alone?” Katie asked as she followed her maid into a truly cavernous and empty dressing room. But there was no reason to unpack her trunks as they would only stay one night.
“It wouldn’t do for me to call you anything else,” Becky said primly, taking Katie’s arm, leading her toward the dressing table, and shoving her down on the bench.
“I don’t see why you can’t call me by my name when you are perfectly comfortable scolding me and pushing me about.”
Becky ignored her grousing. “I’d better tidy your hair. It’s gone quite wild in this humidity,” she added beneath her breath, her hands already busy.
“Don’t take me apart too much,” Katie said, lifting a hand to her mouth and nibbling a fingernail. “Mrs. Kent will be here in a little over half an hour to show me the house.”
“No chewing,” Becky barked.
Katie dropped her hand, turned her gaze toward the mirror, and looked at Becky rather than her own tired face. “Any handsome footmen, grooms, or underbutlers that catch your eye?”
Becky pursed her lips. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”
“It’s perfectly fine for you to have a life of your own, Becky. Just because you are my maid does not mean you need to be a vestal virgin.”
Becky barked a startled laugh and gave Katie’s shoulders a gentle push. “The things you say.”
Katie smiled wearily. “One of us should at least choose her own husband.”
The humor drained from Becky’s face and her hands stilled. “This is your bed, Your Grace, and nobody made it but you.”
“It takes two people to kiss,” Katie snapped.
“His Grace is a man!”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means there isn’t a man in London who would say no to kissing you when you all but flung yourself at him.”
“You are supposed to be on my side,” Katie reminded her.
“Part of being on your side is pointing out when you are in the wrong, Katie. His Grace might have kissed you back that night, but you were the one who conceived of that wretched game.”