The Inconvenient Duchess

tongue like a razor.’
    ‘I doubt, if she’d lived, that she would have approved of me,’ Miranda muttered.
    ‘Then we would have had much in common, for she never approved of me, either. On the whole, she preferred St John, who favoured her. I was too much like my father.’
    ‘You are very unlike your brother,’ she said softly. ‘In many ways.’
    ‘I have a foul temper and a sour disposition,’ he stated. ‘And have been told frequently that St John is more pleasant company.’
    ‘He has not the worries that you do, nor the responsibilities.’
    ‘Responsibilities I have been avoiding for ten years,’ he corrected. ‘These people are still strangers to me. I stayed away too long, and now there is much to be done.’
    ‘I think it is best not to focus on the mistakes of the past,’ she remarked, ‘but to continue as you mean to go.’
    They’d arrived at the front of the house and he helped her down, reaching to circle her with his arms, but she slipped away.
    ‘Careful, your Grace. I do not want to ruin your suit.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Childbirth, at its best, is a messy business. I’ve already ruined the lovely habit you’ve given me.’
    He looked down, and noticed, for the first time, the fresh bloodstains on her dress and jacket. And, despite himself, he pulled away from her. He steadied himself, and moved closer, but not before she’d noticed his flinch.
    She touched him on the arm. ‘I am very tired, although I was not the one doing the work. And I’m sure, after your journey, and this day…’
    ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘We are both very tired. But I look forward to tomorrow.’
    ‘As do I. It has been a most interesting and informative afternoon.’
    ‘Indeed,’ he said to her back as she preceded him up the stairs to their rooms.

Chapter Seventeen
    S trange, she thought, how much things could change in a day. Polly was hooking her into one of her many new gowns, a sprigged muslin day dress, and she was preparing to meet her husband for breakfast. A husband who hadn’t shouted at her in almost twenty-four hours, she thought with a smile.
    She’d inquired about the whereabouts of her brother-in-law, and been told that he’d left as soon as his brother arrived. ‘Not unlike him,’ admitted Polly. ‘He and his Grace don’t get on the best, and he tends to up and disappear on a regular basis no matter the location of the duke. He was about due if you ask me.’
    Relief flooded through her. There was enough to worry about, without fending off the unwanted attentions of St John.
    She quizzed herself. Had they been unwanted?
    She did not wish to dishonour her husband, she told herself.
    But his conversation had been pleasant. And the touches, however brief, had been exciting and she’d longed for more after each meeting.
    And he’d given her more each time, she reminded herself. A little and a little and a little, like a goose walking to the chopping block by following a trail of grain. St John was not as innocent as he appeared. And she’d ended, barricaded in her own room while he’d laughed and teased from the corridor. God knew how many servants had seen. Polly certainly, judging by the worried look she’d shown when Miranda had asked after the young lord. And the relief that was obvious when Miranda had cautioned her to take extra care with her hair, so that she could look her best for breakfast with her husband. She’d better be on her guard, then, lest she sink the marriage before it got out of port.

    Marcus was dividing his attention between a plate of kippers and the morning’s post, when the door opened and his new wife entered the room. He caught his breath at the sight of her. Surely a new dress and a good night’s sleep could not work such magic. Her gown was apricot and set off her skin. He let his eyes trail from her face to the curve of her neck and lower, admiring the way her flush disappeared into the neckline of her dress. Images of ripe fruit flooded his mind. Sweet and succulent. Ready to touch and to taste.
    He shook his head and smiled at her, wondering if she noticed his discomposure. ‘Good morning, Miranda,’ he said, helping her to her chair.
    ‘Good morning, y—Marcus.’ She’d caught herself before the formality slipped out.
    ‘What are your plans today?’
    She hesitated. ‘I thought I would supervise the hanging of the silk in the dining room and make a list, for your approval, of other projects that need doing.’
    ‘Very good.’