Epilogue—At Sea
‘Look, that’s the new duchess! Isn’t she elegant? Look at those pearls…’
The whispers drifted through the salon of the SS Poseidon, and for an instant Jane glanced around her for a glimpse of the elegant duchess. Then she remembered—she was the duchess. And that she and Benedict had set off for their new home in England.
‘I told you I would be the envy of everyone on this ship with you on my arm,’ Benedict said with a smug laugh.
‘Just as I was in the church when everyone saw you walking down the aisle. I am sure I will be in all the papers tomorrow, talking of how my duchess is the loveliest creature in all the land.’
Jane laughed too and squeezed his arm. They were famous! At least for a moment, until the next interesting Society event happened. It was a wonderful joke.
Benedict was right about that magical moment in the church.
The doors had opened and she’d stepped onto the rose petals scattered over the blue carpet, passed under the arch of roses and carnations and glimpsed Benedict through the cloud of her pear-dotted tulle veil.
Everything had seemed to freeze into one image of utter perfection, of absolute joy.
She would be his wife, and he her own darling husband, for ever and ever, and all of New York Society watching vanished. There’d only been them.
She nodded now towards a beautiful blonde opera singer holding court on one of the brocade settees. ‘I’m surprised they don’t take Madame Ivanova for the duchess. She looks much more the part.’
‘Not a chance of that. No one could possibly be the duchess but you.’ He smiled down at her; his eyes filled with tenderness. There was warmth between them in that glance, before a word was said; happiness and pride.
A footman swept open the dining room doors with a low bow, and a moustachioed maitre d’ immediately abandoned two matrons in fur wraps to escort them to their table.
‘Your Grace; Your Grace,’ he said. ‘How honoured we are to have you aboard the Poseidon on such a momentous occasion! We have reserved you the finest table.’
Jane stared around her like the girl from the streets of the Lower East Side she had once been, and not a duchess at all.
The Poseidon was even grander than the vessel she and May had taken to France in the quest for their Worth wardrobe.
It made her think of English country houses in books, all carved wood panelling surmounted by gilded Tudor roses, soaring up and up to a glass dome that let in the star-dotted night sky.
The round tables—draped with rose-pattered damask cloths and lined with gilt-edged china, cut crystal, heavy silverware and jade-hued vases filled with white lilies and roses—were ringed with dark-green leather chairs that matched the thick green carpet underfoot.
An orchestra played Strauss waltzes from behind potted palms, while the crowd of diners glowed in diamonds and rubies, beaded gowns and feathered aigrettes in upswept hair. They all watched as Jane and Benedict passed by.
The maitre d’ led them to the most prominent table of all, set up on a dais directly beneath the glass dome.
It was like a stage set, and Jane suddenly wanted to flee at the realisation of how many people watched every move.
‘It’s like a king dining at Versailles while everyone files past,’ she whispered to Benedict.
‘I am terribly sorry,’ he said to the bowing maitre d’. ‘I do not want to cause a fuss, but could we possibly have that table over there instead?’ He gestured to a table for two in a cozy nook and lowered his voice. ‘We are on honeymoon, you see…’
The maitre d’ looked quite disappointed, but he nodded. ‘Of course, Your Grace.’ He led them to the snug table instead, and a footman rushed forward to hold out Jane’s chair while another poured champagne. Once seated, they were in their own cozy world, and Jane reached out for her husband’s hand.
‘Better?’ he said.
‘Perfect,’ she answered, and it was. There was that something between them that always hummed under the laughter and the chatter, beneath the clinking of glasses and the music. A simple, beautiful place that was only them.
‘Tra-la, la la la, a toast to champagne!’ Jane and Benedict sang as they made their way back to their stateroom after dinner, dancing to the Strauss songs.
She’d had a wee bit of the bubbly stuff, and swayed a bit as they laughed and leaned on each other.
‘It’s quite a fine honeymoon thus far, isn’t it, husband? ’
‘Absolutely, my beautiful wife,’ he answered as they came to their door.
A steward had watched them approach, but vanished when they’d kissed there in the corridor.
Benedict reached behind her to swing open the door, then swept her up into his arms to carry her inside, making them both laugh even more.
It was one of the finest staterooms aboard, decorated in the Louis XVI style with pale wood and gilded trim, rose and cream silk and flowered carpets, all sure to make a duke feel at home.
Daisy had unpacked and left all the silver-topped bottles and pots on the dressing table, tucked away all the trousseau and left a lamp burning.
But Jane could only see the bed, set on a dais and draped in satins, piled high with pillows, bedclothes turned down for them.
Benedict set her on her feet, only to take her into his arms and kiss her again, closing out everything else.
They fell back onto the soft bed together, the satin blankets and monogrammed sheets billowing around them, enveloping them.
Benedict rolled onto his side next to her and reached out his hand to cradle her cheek as he stared into her eyes, and the world narrowed into just the two of them.
His long fingers slowly loosened her hair from its pearl pins, wrapping the long strands around his wrist, binding them together.
Slowly, ever so slowly, much too slowly for her heating blood, he drew her closer.
Her eyes closed tightly as he kissed her, his lips sliding softly over hers again, pressing deeper.
She could taste champagne, honey-sunlight and Benedict, that essence that was only him.
It slid deeper, hotter, their tongues tangling.
They were alone now, nothing forbidden or off-limits, never again.
There was only that sheer need and raw desire.
Through the shimmery, blurry haze of lust and tenderness, she felt his hands in her hair, felt him loosening her gown.
With a deep groan, his lips slid from hers and he buried his face in her hair, kissing the soft curve where her shoulder met her neck.
He peeled away the layers of her clothes, of his jacket and shirt, letting them fall to the floor.
‘My beautiful, beautiful wife,’ he whispered against her bare skin.
‘Not nearly as beautiful as you, my husband,’ she said, and pulled him on top of her so she could kiss him again and press her starving lips to his cheek, his chest, to inhale him deeply.
She held onto him so tightly, closing her eyes to absorb all of him.
His heartbeat, his breath, that vibrant strength and heat of him: it was all hers now, for ever.
He was beautiful, she thought, every part of him, body, soul and heart.
‘This is ours now, always,’ she said.
He drew up to stare into her eyes. ‘Oh, my darling. Yes. Ours, now and always. My wife. My perfect, perfect duchess…’
Keep reading for an excerpt from HER ROYAL HOUSEGUEST by Jade Lee.