Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
T he house was almost impossibly grand.
Cecilia had known, of course, that entering life as a duchess would mean some changes from her current way of life. Substantial changes. But she had not quite expected the severity of those changes—that she would end up living somewhere like this.
Then again, she certainly never would have expected to have a husband like this, either. And somehow, despite her awe at the beauty of the brick walls, and the grandeur of the lawn, the fountains, the gardens…the joy and delight were not quite enough to outweigh the sadness that still hung, heavy, like a pit in her stomach.
Nor could it outweigh the other feelings that had been boiling up inside her during their argument in the carriage.
That she was here at all meant the wedding had happened. It was over. She was no longer Lady Cecilia Forbes, but the Duchess. The Duke’s wife.
She was a wife.
Not that it mattered at all. Regardless of whatever heat she had felt between them, the duke had made it plain that this was to be a marriage of convenience; fine. No need to fight it.
Indeed, at the moment, Cecilia found that she had very little fight in her. Indeed, she was so tired that the entire night seemed cast over with a haze, lit dimly by candles and the moon. As they walked through the doors, they entered a grand hall, grander than she could have ever imagined, as though the house itself were trying to outdo her impression of the outside grounds.
And to think, I have yet to even see any part of the grounds out back, she thought, as they came upon a small semicircle of individuals dressed in staff outfits.
I can only imagine that they must be even grander still, hard though it would be to believe.
A woman at the center of the semicircle stepped forward, her outfit simultaneously stricter and also slightly more ornate than those of the others, though still entirely practical.
“Your Grace,” she said, bowing first to the Duke and then to Cecilia. “Welcome home. And my lady, it is wonderful to meet you. My name is Mrs. Fitzclarence. I am the housekeeper of your new home. I am here to ensure that you have whatever you need to make sure this transition is as easy and smooth as possible.”
Cecilia nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Fitzclarence.”
The housekeeper nodded back. “May I show you to your rooms, then?”
“I…” Cecilia looked back over her shoulder.
The duke was nowhere in sight. He must have stormed off , she thought. She did not know why the thought soured in her stomach.
She shook her head, then turned back to Mrs. Fitzclarence with a smile and a nod. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose that would be lovely.”
Having reached the safety of his study, Ian let the door slam behind him, before heading straight for the brandy.
There was no explanation for these feelings. He had known lust before, to be sure. It was an emotion with which he was rather familiar. After all, how many times had he seduced a woman? How many times had he been made acquainted with the feeling of their skin, the scent of their hair? The sounds they made as he pleasured them?
More times than he could count.
So lust alone for the new duchess, no matter how strong, no matter how formidable, was not the type of thing that ought to drive him to drink. Yet here he was, in his study, glass in hand. On his wedding night, no less! While his new wife spent her wedding night alone.
Ian had never dreamed of marriage; that said, he realized now that he had had some underlying assumption, perhaps, that were he ever to be driven to marriage, it would be assumed that he and his bride would pass the wedding night the usual way.
And he would, if he had thought she wanted it. God, he would. Perhaps it was that which scared him. Here was a bride, his bride—the one woman he was well and truly encouraged by society to want in this way—and he did.
The one woman he was expected to not only want, but love.
Despite his protestations to the contrary, Ian was not entirely unfamiliar with the concept of love. He had seen love, in his parents. He had seen the heights to which it could take a person.
He had also, of course, seen the deep and dreadful lows, as well.
And so he had, sensibly, sworn himself off the whole mess. And his entire life, it had seemed to be working quite well. He had wanted women, but never so desperately that he could not be satisfied with a night or two—or, barring that, by moving on to another woman entirely. He had never been a jealous man or a possessive one. Such traits were the purview of those in love, he was certain.
So why, then, did he feel so protective of his new bride already?
That was, really, what had caused this whole mess. If he had not caught her, they would not have been married. If he had not felt moved to follow her out of the ballroom to begin with; had not danced with her; had not longed to prevent her from dancing with any other gentleman, talking to any other gentleman. Though he had defended himself in the carriage, he knew in his soul that he was at least half to blame.
Whatever these feelings were, they had to be dealt with at once.
He would have to bed her, he realized. It would have to be done. Not now, not tonight. Not until he was certain she wanted him. Not until she begged him for it—and beg him she would. Lady Ce—the new duchess was certainly a woman of great passion. If he knew nothing else about her, he knew that. Whatever anger she felt towards him could easily be transformed, or else exorcized, to or through passion of a different manner.
He leaned back in his chair. It was settled. He would seduce his new bride. As long as it took, until she was practically begging for him to take her; and then once he did successfully bed her, he would be able to shake these inconvenient, inexplicable feelings from his mind. It was the only way. Once he tasted those sweet lips, heard those sighs, he would no longer be tormented by the lust that came with not knowing. And then he would be able to, more or less, return to his life before. It would have to work.
Even as he told himself this, a shudder ran through him at the thought of her in his bed.
Patience , he told himself. Patience. He would be cordial to her. He would learn what she liked. He would seduce her, and have her, and then have no more worry of her, other than to ensure she was well taken care of as his duchess. As his wife.
It was the only way.