The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel 3)

The silence in the coach was deafening, and Sera hated it. Hated that her sisters, who never seemed to be at a loss for words, could not seem to find them.

She looked up, refusing to cower. Sophie’s eyes glistened. Seleste’s mouth was ajar, her shock clear. Even Seline, the least emotional of them all, seemed horrified by the confession. Sera nodded. “Now you know. My future—it’s not a family.” Still, silence reigned. Sera looked to Sesily, wanting the confrontation that only a sister could give. “Come now, Ses. Not even you can find something to say?”

Sesily met her gaze without hesitation. “You didn’t deserve any of it.”

Six words, and somehow no one had ever said them. Sera had never even thought them. And now, there they were, like a perfect, welcome wound, stealing her breath. She pressed her lips together, regaining her composure. “No one does.”

Sesily nodded. “God knows that’s true. But you didn’t. And I think you ought to know it.”

Without a reply, Sera looked out the window, surprised, somehow, to see the chimneys of Highley peeking over the horizon. “We are nearly there.”

Her heart began to pound.

The last time she’d been in a carriage approaching Highley, she’d barely noticed the house, the way it rose up in stunning, stately magnificence, speaking to the venerability of the dukedom to which it belonged. It was massive—a sprawling estate house with grounds that spread over hundreds of acres of lush green countryside.

It was designed to impress. To intimidate. To separate the haves and the have-nots. She’d at once loathed it and loved it, because it was this place that had sired her husband, as though he’d sprung not from man, but from manor.

When she’d tempted Malcolm to smiles here, she’d felt more powerful than at any other time in her life.

She touched her fingers to the window, leaning toward it, imagining she could catch the sweet smell of the earth beyond. Imagining she could catch the past. The future it had promised.

She shook her head.

That future wasn’t possible. But that did not mean that a new one wasn’t.

A new one, where she was free. Where she cared for herself. Where she succeeded on her own merit and not the whim of her aristocratic husband. No matter how different he seemed. And he did seem different, though she could not put her finger on how.

She supposed she was different as well.

Different enough to know she must stay the course.

The carriage slowed to turn up the miles-long drive, swaying mightily on the less traveled ground, and Sera returned her attention to her sisters, each watching her, an assemblage of soldiers in corsets and petticoats. Awaiting their orders.

She looked from one to the next, each proud and prepared. She could not help her smile. “He’s going to be livid when we all pile out.”

“Good,” Sophie said, and Sera marveled at her strong, proud youngest sister. At the way she’d grown and blossomed. “I have rarely made the Duke of Haven’s life pleasant, and I don’t intend to begin now. He’s a massive debt to pay.”

The house came into view, and she instantly noticed him, standing alone at the top of the steps leading to the main entrance. She stiffened, and Sophie peered out the window. “Good Lord. Is he waiting for you?”

“No doubt he was afraid I would not heed his summons.”

“He’s proper horrid,” Seline said.

“There’s still time for us to turn the coach around,” Seleste offered.

For a moment, Sera considered it.

“Do you think he’s been there all morning?” Sophie asked.

“Possibly,” Sesily groaned. “No doubt he’s made some deal with the devil for endless stamina.”

Seraphina might have thought to thank heaven for her loyal sisters, each more willing to skewer Haven than the last. But she was instead transfixed by the man.

It looked as though it was somehow reasonable that he’d been standing on his steps all morning, still and strong—perfectly turned out in pristine coat and trousers, boots polished to looking-glass shine—as though he would happily remain there until nightfall. Longer, if need be. Sera hated how calm he looked, as though it were perfectly normal for a duke to linger at the entrance to his estate, awaiting his guests.

Not guests.

His wife.

The mistress of the house.

There had been a time when he had waited there for a different reason. Because he could not bear another minute without her.

She couldn’t help the little huff of laughter that came at the thought.

The carriage came into the rounded drive, and his gaze found hers through the small, mottled window. She resisted the instinct to look away. As it pulled to a stop, he came forward and Sera’s brow furrowed. What was his game? Where was the requisite liveried footman to scurry in and open the door with an aristocratic flourish? The Haven she’d known would never have dreamed doing a servant’s work.

Not true. He’d performed this exact task once before.

Her brows went up in question, and he raised an insolent brow, as if to say, You dare question me?

She changed her mind. This man was not so different from the Haven she had known. She could not wait to see his response when the door opened and he was faced with all five of the Soiled S’s. No. He’d never called them that. He’d always called them the other name. The worse one. The Dangerous Daughters.

“Sera?” Sesily asked.

“Hmm?” She did not look away from him. She couldn’t. He was always more handsome in the country, dammit.

She didn’t like being off-kilter. Didn’t like the sense that all this was about to go pear-shaped.

“Does Haven like cats?”

She looked to Sesily, already coming to the edge of her seat, Brummell in arms, as though she was prepared to do battle. Sesily was often first into the fray, even when she was green at the gills. “I don’t know. But I doubt it.”

“Excellent,” she said.

Haven opened the door, and Sesily flew from the carriage, thrusting the panicked cat into his arms. “Hold this!”

Surprisingly, he did, somehow controlling his own shock as he failed to control the animal, which immediately went wild, hissing and clawing and flailing to be free.

All while Sesily cast up her accounts upon the duke’s perfectly polished boots.

Sera’s hand flew to her mouth, as though she could capture her astonished gasp. As though she could hide the pleasure that edged through it. She couldn’t.

His head snapped up at the sound, and he met her eyes, at once furious and shocked beyond words. Sera lowered her hand, revealing her grin, wide with the realization that everything had, in fact, gone pear-shaped.

For him.

Chapter 10

Dangerous Daughter Downs Duke!

April 1833

Three years, four months earlier

Highley Manor

Malcolm couldn’t believe his good fortune.

She’d come. He’d asked her to come, and she had.

He bounded down to the carriage, ignoring the cool April wind, looking up to the coachman as he opened the door and pulled out the steps. “You weren’t followed, were you?”

If she’d been followed, she’d be ruined. And he did not wish her ruined. He only wished her his. Privately. There was no privacy to be found in a London season.

“No, Your Grace,” the driver said, his tone barely edging into offense. “Followed your directions to the letter.”

Haven was already looking into the coach, breath catching as skirts appeared, a deep berry red, the color of desire. And sin. And love. The color of love.

He reached for her hands, gloved in the same wicked color, disappearing into a perfectly tailored grey traveling cloak, buttoned high up the neck with utter propriety. He hated that coat, and vowed to remove it just as soon as she was inside this house. Just as soon as she was on solid ground—the ground that would soon be theirs.

J

ust as soon as he asked her to marry him.

She grinned up at him. “I hope you understand how well I trust you, Your Grace. Some might say that accepting an hours-long carriage ride to Lord knows where, alone, is a terrible idea.”

He lifted her gloved hand to his lips, wishing the fabric gone. Wishing her warm skin against his. Soon. “Your trust is valued beyond measure, my lady.”

Her gaze slid past him to the manor house. “This is an impressive cottage.”

He didn’t turn to look at the massive structure, at the cold stones, hundreds of years old, that had seen generations of dukes before him. He lowered his voice to a whisper, barely recognizing himself when he said, “I wish it were a cottage.”

Her eyes lit with teasing pleasure. “What then? You, a humble shepherd? Me, a rosy-cheeked milkmaid?”

Settling her hand into the crook of his arm, he led her up the stone steps and through the enormous entryway, empty of servants. He’d given them the day, and in that, taken it for himself. He did not have to play the duke. Not ever with Seraphina. He spoke low at her ear, nevertheless. “Is that what you’d like?”

She looked up at him. “Shepherd, woodcutter, butcher, rat catcher. Whatever you choose, that’s what I’d like.”

He believed her. Had there ever been anyone who had wanted him first, and his title second? Not any of the women who chased after him at balls throughout London . . . not any of the men who angled for his friendship and his financial backing . . . not even his mother.

Indeed, his mother had only ever wanted the title. The child required to secure it had been an inconsequential aside.

But Seraphina, she wanted him. Not the title.

He guided her into his private study—the only room in the house where he felt truly comfortable—where a fire burned in the hearth. “Rat catcher?” he asked, turning her to face him as the door closed behind them, her nearness relaxing him, warming him.

She smiled. “They can be terribly useful.”

“And what of you?” He pulled her close.

Her hands came up, around his neck, her fingers sliding into his hair, and he fought the urge to close his eyes and bask in the touch.

“What would you like me to be?” she asked, her beautiful blue eyes meeting his, seeing into him.

He didn’t want some fantasy version of her. He didn’t need it. She was the fantasy. Heart pounding, he shook his head. “Whatever you wish to be,” he whispered. “Whatever makes you happy.”

“A seamstress then,” she whispered, her gaze falling to the weave of his topcoat, one hand sliding down to stroke the fabric. “Mending clothes by candlelight, singing in the window, waiting for you to come home.”

He’d take that life. Trade everything for it. For any life she would give him. But he wouldn’t have to.

“What would you sing?”

She smiled. Then, God help him, she sang. Like heaven. “Here lies the heart and the smile and the love, here lies the wolf, the angel, the dove. She put aside dreaming and she put aside toys, and she was born that day, in the heart of a boy.”

He pulled her close, unable to do anything else. Unable to look anywhere but into her beautiful blue eyes, unable to think of anything but the sound of her. The smell of her. The feel of her. “I didn’t know you could sing.”

She blushed. “All well-bred young ladies are required to do so.”

Not like that. His arms tightened around her. “But you’re not a lady. You’re a seamstress in the window. With the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard.”

She sighed at the thought. “Only in my dreams.”

He shook his head. “Try another dream.”

She laughed, the sound filling him with light, as it always did. “I’m rubbish at this game, it seems.”

“No,” he said, setting his hand to her chin, tilting her face up to his. “You are quite good at it. But I’ve a better picture to paint.”

Her brows rose. “Do you?”

“You’re a duchess.” Her eyes went wide at the words, and he saw the desire there. Not for the title. For him.

She wanted him.

He continued. “You’re perfect and so far beyond my reach that I daren’t even look at you.” He did look at her, of course. “I daren’t even think of you.” The flush returned, and he ran his thumb across the pink skin of her cheeks. “I certainly shouldn’t touch you.” Her lips parted, and he couldn’t resist leaning in, closer, thanking heaven that they were alone. “Most definitely shouldn’t kiss you.”

“Nonsense,” she said, coming up on her toes. “What is the point of being duchess if I cannot insist upon kissing?” She closed the distance between them, and he groaned his pleasure as she gave herself up to him, soft and sweet and perfect, tasting of mint. She always tasted of mint, as though she were in a constant state of readiness for him.

He licked past her lips, delving into her mouth, sliding and stroking and tasting until she gave herself to him, to the moment, to the illicitness of it. And then she was matching him, stroke for stroke, and his hands were at the fastening of her cloak, making quick work of it, pushing it over her shoulders and down her arms. She didn’t hesitate to help him, and he considered it something of a miracle when he pulled away, leaving them both panting.

She blinked up at him. “Malcolm?”

He closed his eyes at the name, at the pleasure that rioted through him when she spoke it. Shook his head. “I didn’t intend for this—”

She smiled. “I did.”

The bold, brash words were too much. Who was this woman? How was she so brave? So sure? How did she control him so well? How did he want it so much?

And then she whispered, “We haven’t much time.”

She was right. She had to return to London in scant hours. He’d brought her here to have a moment with her, without prying eyes and clamoring gossip. Not to take her, but to ask for her.

He should have gone to her father. Asked properly. He was a duke, dammit. There was a process for the asking of a hand in marriage.

But he didn’t want others in this. He wanted her, alone. Honest. His, not because of titles or business or finances or land or because her father decreed it. It did not matter what an old man wanted. It mattered only what she wanted. What she chose.

And she was choosing him. She was the only person who had ever truly chosen him.

There was time enough to ask her father. He wouldn’t say no. No one turned away a dukedom.

But what if she did?

His heart pounded even as she smiled, curious, and reached for him, one red-gloved hand sliding down his arm, leaving fire in its wake. “Malcolm?”

He captured it. “What did you tell your mother? Your sisters? How did you escape them?”

Later, her hesitation would consume him. But in the moment, he barely noticed it. “I told them I was visiting an ill friend. That I would be gone for the afternoon.”

He nodded. As excuses went, it was not perfect, but it was not horrendous. It bought them an hour. Two, perhaps. Enough time for him to ask her. Enough time for him to make her say yes.

What if she didn’t say yes?

He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly unsettled. Doubt was not an emotion with which he was familiar.

“You’ve never been to my home,” she said, pulling him from his thoughts.

“I—” He stopped, not knowing what to say.

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Mal had the distinct impression that it did. He didn’t want to sit on an uncomfortable settee and suffer the smirks and stares of her mother and sisters, the ones that marked him as nothing more than a title. The ones he suffered whenever he was in public—a bachelor duke, like a bull to market. He met Sera’s eyes and told her the truth. “I’m too greedy for you,” he said. “I want you for me, alone. I want to be yours, alone.”

A pause, silent and thoughtful as she considered him. It felt as though she could see into him. She took a deep breath then

, letting it out, as though she’d made a decision.

And she had.

“Well,” she said soft, serious. “I am here. Sans chaperone. As requested.”

He had no right to make such a request. She should never have agreed. But she wanted him just as he wanted her. He knew it every time he looked into her eyes, every time he caught her gaze across a ballroom, hundreds of people keeping them from each other.

He knew it now, when she reached for his face with her free hand, the kidskin there blocking her touch—making him wish she weren’t wearing the gloves. “I am yours,” she whispered. “Shepherd, duke, rat catcher . . .” She shook her head with a smile. “Whatever you wish.”

He lowered his forehead to hers.

“Yours to do with as you wish,” she whispered.

His breath came on a tide of pleasure.

She would say yes.

But if he made love to her, she would have to say yes.

And then his lips were on hers, and she was his. In his arms, his fingers working at the fastenings of her bodice, making room for their touch, reveling in the little sighs and gasps she offered—each another gift, just for him. Private.

Christ, he loved the privacy of this. The idea that no one knew that she was his. That no one imagined this moment. That even after today, when all the world knew that they would be matched, this afternoon was theirs alone. Shared with no one.

And then her bodice was open, and she was bared to him, and her fingers—those damn gloved fingers—were guiding him, and he was tasting her warm, smooth skin, his name on her lips like a prayer.

This was how it would be forever.

No titles. No demands. Nothing but them, together.

Happy. Wanted.

Loved.

He slid his hand down to the hem of her skirts, reaching and finding the impossibly smooth skin of her leg beneath. She wasn’t wearing stockings. She was magnificent. He ran his teeth over the skin of her breast, knowing, somehow, that the edge would set her aflame. Her gasp set him in motion, moving lower, even as her skirts slid up, her thighs opening without hesitation, as though she knew what he planned.