The Inconvenient Duchess

and giving him reason to hope that things might be different. Different for him. Different between them.
    ‘Coffee?’
    Before he could decline, she was filling his cup. She would do the same with his afternoon tea, adding the milk and lemon that he liked. He could never remember telling her his preferences, but she knew them, none the less, and went out of her way to see him comfortable. The coffee burned on his tongue like bile.
    He’d looked at her across the ballroom, last night and been dazzled by her. The gown that he’d bought her, the jewels that he’d given her sparkling against her neck. And she’d smiled to him as the crowd swept her away. He heard the sighs of the young men as she passed and the curious whisperings of the dowagers, and he’d basked in their envy.
    The wine at dinner and the brandy after had been too much. Odd that the drink would affect him so. But he suspected it wasn’t the drink. He was drunk with the sight of her, the joy of knowing that she was his. His body hummed with it. Anticipation. He felt like…
    A bridegroom. And he’d grown tired of the knowing smiles that the other men gave him, the too-hearty pats on the back, when he saw her searching for him, calling his name and sneaking in to the darkened library.
    And, unable to wait a moment longer, he followed her. Excited beyond all reason at the scandal of it. Hurtling towards the inevitable and would have taken her there in her gown on the library floor if only…
    He pounded his fist into a palm to bring himself back to the truth. And she jumped in alarm, dropping the spoon she’d been holding and letting it clatter to her plate. Then, with deliberation, she picked the thing up and went back to her breakfast, not eating but moving the food around on her plate in a credible simulation of someone enjoying her meal.
    If only she’d known who he was. The kisses she’d given him were meant for someone else.
    And when they’d got home…
    The woman who had smiled so at the ball could hardly bring herself to look at him. And he’d silenced her, afraid of what she might say.
    ‘I never loved you.’
    ‘Release me.’
    ‘Let me go to him.’
    He’d lost himself in the alabaster of her skin, the curve of her throat. A body made to love and be loved, even if it held a faithless heart.
    But at least what had happened between his wife and his brother had not gone so far as to cast doubts on legitimacy. She’d come to his bed a virgin. There were ways of tricking a man, he well knew, if a woman chose to go to the trouble. She’d had no time to prepare a deception and he’d felt her body respond with pain, not pleasure, when he’d entered her. In his carelessness, and jealousy, he’d hurt her.
    He pushed away from the table and went to the window and stared out over the garden. The sun played in over the flowers, mocking them with the illusion of peace and happiness.
    ‘St John is gone.’ She had come to stand beside him and was looking out of the window as well.
    ‘I know.’ That was his way, after all. It always had been.Cause as much chaos as possible, and then disappear, leaving the shambles in his wake.
    ‘The grooms said he rode out shortly before we got home.’
    So she’d gone to find him first thing this morning. He twisted a hand in the velvet draperies and felt the rings giving way under the pressure of his hand. He willed himself to relax before answering. ‘I know.’
    ‘Last night, at the ball—’
    ‘Let us not speak of last night,’ he cut in. ‘I do not wish to hear the details. I am willing to forget last night ever happened—’ God how I want to forget . ‘—if you can promise me—can swear—that any child born to you will be mine.’ He turned to her, awaiting the answer.
    ‘I swear.’ Her voice was almost inaudible.
    ‘Very good, then,’ he said, untangling himself from the curtain. ‘I have business to attend to today. I will see you this evening.’ He strode from the room.
    Miranda watched the tension in her husband’s retreating back, as though the weight of her gaze was too much to bear. She sank on to her chair and toyed with her breakfast. She’d hoped, with St John gone, to have a chance to talk things out with her husband. Of course, she’d hoped to be free of the secrets she was already keeping, and now he’d insisted on making it worse. After last night, there was yet another on the list of things that she must never discuss.
    Damn St John for knowing his brother