The Inconvenient Duchess

at this advanced hour, that the duke had no plans to visit her. And if he did, she should hurry and be back before he arrived and no one would be the wiser. She left her door open a crack and tiptoed down the hall to the place where she was sure the servants’ stairs must lie.

    The duke stared down in to his brandy glass. He should be upstairs by now, waiting on his new wife, not in the library, gathering Dutch courage.
    He poured another glass and drank. This was not how the day was supposed to run. He’d had no desire to take a wife and certainly not to yoke himself to the odd duck that had washed up on the doorstep yesterday. Eventually, he would have had to make a decision, but he had been enjoying the relative quiet in the house without the presence of his mother.
    He would get the estate back in order first. And somethingwould have to be done about St John. An uneasy truce at least. They’d need to work through enough of the old problem so they would not be at each other’s throats. He had no real desire to throw his only living relative from the house for good, but it might be necessary if no solution could be found.
    He’d never intended to bring a wife into the mess that existed now. But one had forced her way into it and now he had another problem to deal with. And he’d done a ham-handed job of it so far, railing at her in the hall for problems that weren’t of her doing, and goaded by St John’s sneers to that kiss after the wedding. He could tell by the thin set of her lips at breakfast that she was convinced she’d married a lout.
    And now, instead of apologising and getting on with the business at hand, he was hiding in the library with a brandy bottle. As if an excess of spirits would do anything but inhibit his ability to perform the new duty added to an already long list.
    At the least, it would leave him careless and he imagined the deflowering of a virgin required a certain amount of finesse.
    If that truly was her state. He suspected not. To be rushed unescorted out of London raised doubts. He knew nothing of her family other than it had been wronged by his, which did not narrow the field much in choice of a wife. It was how he’d gained his last wife as well. He suspected, between his mother, his brother and himself, that there was quite a list of eligible females whose families had been wronged. But he could not take a harem to assuage the family honour.
    It might be best, he thought, swirling the liquor in the snifter, if the consummation were postponed, at least untilhe could ascertain the reason that his mother had been so eager to have him wed to this particular woman. It would be the rational course of action to proceed with caution.
    And what would be the fun of that?
    Marcus smiled at the thought that had crept unbidden in to his head. Throw caution to the winds? He was a brother to St John after all. While it might be sensible to save the wedding night until he was sure he had any intention of staying married to the woman in question, it was in no way satisfying. If the woman came to his home hoping to be wed, surely she must be expecting his visit.
    He set down his glass and walked slowly towards his room.
    If she was honourable, and this was all some horrible mistake, she deserved the protection of his name, and should be willing to submit graciously to her new husband. She’d had ample opportunity to stop this farce of a marriage at the beginning, yet she’d said nothing. She now had no reason to cry nay at the inevitable climax of the day.
    But if she was some trollop foisted on him by a combination of bad fortune and his mother’s need for redemption? Then he could enjoy his wife’s favours, knowing that he was not taking any liberties that she had not given elsewhere. And when he found the truth he would throw her out into the street, bag and baggage, reputation be damned. She could scream and cry all she liked, but where there was no wedding licence, there was no wedding. He was bound by no legal contract and no amount of crying women and hand-wringing preachers would persuade him to keep her.
    Besides, the quickest way to discover her honour or lack of it might be to do the deed. Seeing the wench naked, he could look for a telltale bulging belly or lack of modesty.
    But if she was innocent? Then planning was required.
    He arrived in his room and paused with his hand on the knob. How best to set the scene? His room or hers? Hers, he suspected. Then, when it was