Regency Romance Omnibus 2018: Dominate Dukes & Tenacious Women

"Send me word as soon as possible." It was foolish to desire correspondence. He desired to have her give him something, even if it was merely news of her estates and the occasional line about herself.

"Farewell." There was nothing left to do. Despite their recent bout of vitriol, he knew she sincerely wished him well.

"See me to my horses." She paused, looking at him. "It is a wifely duty." The words were said without an intention of maligning her, and she took it as such. She nodded once and fell into place beside him. They continued in silence until they reached the wide hall and then down through the doors to the stairs.

With a handshake given to Lord Rochester, who was vastly improved, he bid him farewell and entered into his vehicle. With a crack of the whip the horses moved, pulling the carriage down the driveway, away from her. He didn’t look back. There was nothing to look at. Only a woman who had persecuted him for loving her. He could finally admit to himself that he loved her now, when it didn’t matter. He had started when she had challenged him for blindly following Society and goaded him into rediscovering his sister’s affection. Then surviving her fiery temper as he attempted to deliver his convoluted compliment. That had been a lesson to him, hard learned but well learned. From that moment he had endeavoured to speak as frankly as possible. With his truest emotion.

That was one of the reasons he had fallen into temptation with her. When she had asked for his touch and had confessed a desire for him it had thrilled him, too much. He had completely forgotten the rules of Society while in her thrall. He was confident that desire had been genuine on her part. He knew he ached for her.

But in the morning—the morning she had turned away from him. He was to blame that even now she refused him. She was only resigned to being bound to him by marriage. It was enough to make a man fall to his knees and bemoan his fate. Amelia had flashing green eyes that shone with sincerity yet he couldn’t look at those eyes. The truth was hidden in them and he was not prepared for them yet, maybe never.

Chapter Fifteen

Amelia watched the black carriage emblazoned with the ducal coat of arms pick its way down the driveway and she felt a sudden need to cry. She had barely survived one visit of the man. In barely a month she had lost her virginity and become married to him. Both incidents had happened closely, but not in the conventional sequence. Damn him, had it been merely sport to him?

"It is done then?" Her father’s voice cut through the fog in her mind.

"What, Papa?" She turned to find him regarding her with a small smile.

"Your discussion with your husband," he answered with not a little glee.

"It is done." She nodded.

"I have a letter for you," he continued.

"I know of it," she answered.

"Tell me, is he not a good match?" her father asked with a little concern.

"He is, Papa."

"But you are not happy." It was a statement.

"Happiness is difficult, Papa."

"You will adjust, I, for one, am in raptures that my daughter will not spend the rest of her life in a foreign land." That drove a surge of guilt through her.

"Papa..." she started, but he continued.

“I know it was not your desire, but truly Lord Windon is a kind man who loves you and will bear your eccentricities well."

"I am not eccentric," she murmured under her breath, loud enough for her father to catch.

"You are, my darling, but that is one of the things I love about you, poppet," he replied with an indulgent smile.

"Papa. I love you too." Lord Rochester caught his daughter in a quick, feeble embrace. It was unconventional, as was her life.

"I must retire now or draw the wrath of my physician." They both shared a laugh at that. The thought of Mister Grimsby, Lord Rochester’s physician who visited daily, in a wrath was impossible. The man was as soft spoken as to plead with a patient instead of giving orders. Still, he was skilled and, most importantly, did not believe in bloodletting.

Amelia pecked her father as he turned back into the house and she turned towards the gardens. Amelia stroked a fuzzy Lamb’s Ear plant and walked on. The house guests were all gone and the gardener was done with work for today. She anticipated solitude, the better to think with. But still she couldn’t bring herself to quiet contemplation. She forced herself to move and dwell on other subjects. If she allowed herself to think about it, she would cry. A slow sense of loss had grown in her heart at the moment of parting from him, growing with every distance covered by Robert’s carriage back to London and onward to his estates. She had steeled herself to speak with him before he left, but as she watched him go her victory had collapsed into ashes. Everything she had fought to gain was dross. Truly, she had given herself to him in love, or something closely akin. She had resigned herself to a life with no one in it and had foolishly desired a night

of passion. She had desired him and he had been willing.

For the first time since it occurred, Amelia allowed the scene to hurl upon her in the full glory of the memory. Her need to sample lust had quickly morphed to become an act of trust and, if she could admit it to herself, it had been an act of love. But the morning after the act had not gone as she envisioned, and she had sulked like a petulant child.

Now that she thought about it, it had been naturally an awkward scene. How was one to treat the daughter of the manor when he was a guest in her own home and had only just deflowered her? He had gone ahead to do the honorable thing and marry her. They had discussed the possibilities at the lake, so the matter was not too strongly a shock, but she had even driven herself into a bigger rage. She had thought he was trying to claim her vast holdings, but he had proved her wrong. Yet she could not find it in herself to be civil to him.

Was it through? Was she suffering from a malady of discontent that spinsters suffered from? Many failed Seasons she had considered herself on the shelf, by polite rules and by choice. Married she still rebelled, even if there was no battle to be won.