When You Wish Upon a Duke Read online

  That is, she guessed he must, but she did not know for certain. How could she? Though they had spent the entire day in each other’s company, he had behaved like a well-mannered stranger. He had smiled with obvious admiration, and complimented her, and held her hand when they walked together, and listened to what she said with polite attention, but there had been no intimacy to any of it. He had steadfastly kept to the carriage seat opposite hers, and the extent of their kissing had been his mouth hovering over the back of her hand.

  He could speak as much as he wished about how she had not displeased him last night, but how could she think otherwise, when the proof was right before her?

  By the end of the afternoon, she was exhausted and perilously close to weeping before him. The last call had been to an elderly marchioness in St. James’s Square, and as they left, she looked longingly across the square to Aunt Sophronia’s house. Knowing how disorganized Mama always was, she wondered if their coach had already left for Ransom Manor, or if Mama and her sisters might still be within.

  “I know we haven’t planned it, Charlotte,” March said, taking note, “but I have a bit of business to look after at my club, and if you’d like to visit your aunt while I—”

  “Oh, yes, please!” she cried, then realized too late how that must have sounded. “That is, March, I would enjoy such a visit very much, if it is agreeable to you.”

  She wished he hadn’t been quite so quick to agree, nor that he had looked so relieved to be rid of her, either. They’d only been married a day, she thought sadly. How could they already be tired of each other’s company?

  As she climbed the familiar steps to Aunt Sophronia’s house, a footman in Marchbourne livery with her, she resolved to keep her sorrow to herself. She didn’t want to worry her aunt or her mother, nor did she wish to seem like a selfish, spoiled bride by complaining that her husband was too thoughtful and kind. March didn’t deserve that. All she longed for was a few comforting minutes in a familiar place, with family who accepted her as she was and wouldn’t ask her if, after one night, she was already with child.

  But she soon learned from the butler that Mama and her sisters had in fact left at dawn, as they’d planned. Her disappointment was so overwhelming that, combined with everything else about this miserable day, she promptly burst into tears as soon as she saw Aunt Sophronia in her parlor.

  “Why, Charlotte, what is this?” her aunt said, rising with surprise. “What reason have you to weep so?”

  “I—I haven’t any,” Charlotte said, her voice squeaking upward with tears, and when her aunt held out her arms to her, she fell into them, sobbing against her shoulder.

  Aunt Sophronia let her cry, patting her gently on the back while her small white dogs barked and raced about from excitement.

  “There now, there,” she said when at last Charlotte was too exhausted to weep more. “Now tell me the reason for this. Don’t say that there isn’t one, because you wouldn’t be spilling such torrents if there weren’t. What’s amiss? Where is the duke?”

  “He—he’s at his club,” Charlotte said, fumbling for her handkerchief. “I can only stay for a little while.”

  “Every gentleman retreats to his club when he tires of women’s company.” Her aunt pressed her own handkerchief into Charlotte’s hand. “Is that all this is? You are disappointed that he has not made you the entire sphere of his life?”

  Charlotte shook her head, scattering her tears. “Last—last night, he came to my bed and—and loved me, and it was perfect and wonderful and I—I believed myself to be blessed to have such a husband.”

  Her aunt smiled. “Well, then. Most ladies would beg to have such troubles.”

  “But that is my trouble, Aunt!” Charlotte cried forlornly, pressing the handkerchief to her eyes. “Because I thought what we did was wonderful and fine and perfect, and he did not. Last night, he—he left me as soon as we were done, and then this morning, when I went to him at breakfast in—in my new pink dressing gown, he only told me that he—he had behaved disrespectfully toward me in my bed, and that he was very sorry, and promised that he would never be that—that way again, when that is what I would wish!”

  “The duke did not enjoy making love to you?” Aunt Sophronia asked, her mouth tight with dismay.

  Charlotte shook her head forlornly, pressing the handkerchief into a tight, soggy ball.

  “At first I thought that he did, but now I know he didn’t,” she confessed. “All this day he has kept to his word, and been very honorable, and not touched me or kissed me once. And—and I would rather it were the other way. Oh, Aunt, I must be such a harlot, to feel so!”

  “Hush, don’t say such a thing, even in jest,” Aunt Charlotte said quickly, “because it cannot be true. You’re a Wylder. You’re not a harlot.”

  “Then why doesn’t he desire me?”

  “He hasn’t said that, my dear,” Aunt Charlotte said. “At least not how you’ve told it to me. What is more likely is that the duke, being a young man in the deepest throes of passion, fears that he treated you not as a lady but as a harlot.”

  Charlotte blotted her eyes with the wadded handkerchief, yet still the tears came. “That’s exactly what he said.”

  Her aunt nodded sagely. “All his carnal experience will have been with courtesans, concubines, actresses, and other harlots, you see, as it would be with most bachelor gentlemen. Even a gentleman free of scandal such as the duke will have resorted on occasion to low congress with unfortunate creatures in brothels and bagnios. It gives gentlemen satisfaction and bodily relief, but no notion of how to treat their lady wives.”

  Charlotte nodded. She did not want to think of March with low creatures in brothels, but she couldn’t deny that it was possible. While she had liked the way that, in their urgency, they hadn’t bothered to undress all the way, even she could understand how that had not been entirely genteel.

  “But what can I do now?” she asked, mystified. “How can I make him desire me again?”

  “Oh, he already desires you,” Aunt Sophronia said gravely. “I should think after last night’s performance you should have little doubt of that. He was wrong to arouse you in the way he apparently did. But he is aware of this, gentleman that he is, and clearly he is trying to correct his errors.”

  “He is,” Charlotte said slowly. What her aunt was telling her made perfect sense, and the more she considered it, the more relieved she felt.

  “You must do your part, Charlotte,” her aunt continued. “You cannot act like a slattern. You must turn that desire into a more honorable regard. A single glass of wine at supper and no more, so you do not lose hold of your own passions. Receive him to your bed as a lady would, and remember to remain so. Don’t wail or thrash about, or use profanity or other lurid expressions only fit for Covent Garden. The duke is your husband and will be the father of your children. There is no need to entice him with brothel tricks.”

  Charlotte nodded eagerly. “So I should wear my new nightshift tonight?”

  “I can think of nothing better.” Her aunt smiled warmly, and patted her cheek. “The finest white linen, decorously embroidered, is exactly right for a duchess. Arrange your hair simply, and have your face scrubbed clean, without any paint. Give him nothing that will stir memories of those wretched women from his past. He will respect you the more, and in time love you for it as well.”

  “That is all I really wish for,” Charlotte said wistfully. “For him to love me.”

  Aunt Sophronia smiled. “How can he not, when you are so eminently lovable? In time he will love you. I am sure of it. A bit of patience, a fine show of wifely virtue, and his love will be yours.”

  The business that March had claimed to take him to his club was not exactly business. He had gone there hoping to find his cousin Brecon, and his hope had bordered on desperation. His marriage was barely a day old, and already it was making him uneasy. He’d blundered badly on his wedding night, and though he thought he’d mended things this morning, he c
learly hadn’t. His first day as a married gentleman had only gone rattling downhill after breakfast, and he had a distinct suspicion that it hadn’t reached the bottom yet. He’d only to recall how Charlotte had practically leaped from the carriage to get away from him and back to her family to understand that.

  No, the sooner he could speak to Brecon, the better.

  Fortunately, his cousin was a creature of habit, and March found Brecon where he always was at this time of day, sitting in the same leather armchair in the same corner of the upstairs parlor. He’d a glass, his pipe, and an open book, the perfect picture of a contented man, without any taxing strife in his house to disturb him. March envied him.

  “Ah, the happy bridegroom,” Brecon said, closing his book as March joined him. “I’m surprised your lady parted with you so soon.”

  With a groan, March dropped heavily into the next chair. He was glad they were off in this corner, away from anyone who might overhear them. It was one thing to speak of Charlotte to Brecon, but quite another to bandy her name about the club, and he wouldn’t do it.

  “The lady is back in the dragon’s lair,” he said, “where she would much prefer to be than with me.”

  Breck’s brows rose with surprise. “Not to stay?”

  March shook his head. “I’ll gather her back within the hour. She hasn’t abandoned me. Not yet, anyway. Though I wouldn’t wonder if she refused to come out to me when I call for her again.”

  “But what has happened? When I waved you two away in your carriage yesterday, I could not imagine a happier pair.”

  A waiter appeared to offer March wine or other refreshment, but he quickly shook his head. After last night, he wasn’t sure he’d ever wish to drink again.

  “We were happy as we left St. Paul’s, and happier still as we dined. Brecon, I’ve never known another lady who was more agreeable, more amusing, more charming in conversation, more—”

  “Until you landed in her bed,” Brecon said shrewdly, pointing the stem of his pipe for emphasis. “That’s it, isn’t it? Were you too forcefully ardent for the lady? Did she weep and beg you to cease?”

  March dropped his head back against the chair and looked up at the ceiling, unable to meet his cousin’s gaze.

  “I’ll admit it freely,” he said. “You don’t have to say it. I didn’t follow your advice. I didn’t woo her, and I forgot the pretty compliments.”

  “Was it really so bad as that, cousin?” Brecon asked. “Compliments aren’t everything, however pretty. Perhaps you are remembering it worse than it was.”

  “I was halfway to being drunk before we even sat at the table,” March admitted. “We both drank more—a good deal more—without eating. Then we stumbled to her bedchamber, where I tore away half her clothes, shoved her on the bed, and took her.”

  “And for this performance, you were likely rewarded with tears and wailing,” Brecon said. “Not that I could blame the lady.”

  March paused, still staring at the ceiling and wondering exactly how much to say, even to his cousin. After his own deplorable behavior, Charlotte should have been expected to cry and wail, as Brecon said. But she hadn’t. Instead he would have sworn that she’d found her pleasure, too, which had only added to his own shame. Innocent that she was, she’d trusted him so completely that she hadn’t even realized that what he’d done to her was wrong.

  “We were both in our cups,” he said finally. “I don’t believe she was entirely, ah, aware.”

  He dared to glance at Brecon. He wished he hadn’t. His cousin was glaring at him with a mixture of contempt and disgust.

  “You poured wine down the poor lady’s throat until she was too drunk to notice that you’d ravished her?” he said, incredulous. “That was your wedding night? No wonder she’s retreated to her aunt’s house. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that she’d run clear back to Ransom. Who could fault her?”

  “I apologized this morning,” March said quickly, leaving out how Charlotte had been the braver one, making the first step by coming to his rooms. “I promised last night’s, ah, excesses would never be repeated, and that we would begin anew, as if they hadn’t happened.”

  Now it was Brecon who groaned. “Cousin, cousin! Women are constitutionally incapable of pretending an event didn’t happen. Their very beings cannot permit it. On the contrary, they will never forget anything, particularly any injustice perpetrated by a man.”

  At once March recalled the grim time with Charlotte earlier today in the carriage. No matter how cheerful and respectful he’d attempted to be, Charlotte had only looked at him with the saddest possible eyes.

  “Perhaps that explains it,” he said slowly. “I’d thought she’d accepted my apology, but today she’s made me feel as if I’ve kicked a puppy.”

  “Elaborate apologies don’t work,” Brecon declared. “The grander they are, the less women are inclined to accept them. Worse, they’ll suspect you for them, too. And there is also the likelihood that despite the participation of Bacchus, she recalls a good deal more of last night than she has admitted to you. She may be as queasy with guilt and remorse as you are, and heartily wishes you’d stop reminding her of her part.”

  March frowned and leaned forward, lowering his voice even further. “She was a virgin, Brecon. I’d proof of that, and I won’t have you say otherwise.”

  Brecon rolled his eyes. “I never did say that. I said she might have felt guilty after your, ah, initiation, which implies a nicely developed conscience.”

  March sat back in his chair, not entirely convinced, but Brecon was already circling back to his first topic, like a country preacher turned dogged with his sermon.

  “No, no, cousin,” he said. “There must be no histrionics, no breast-beating or gnashing of teeth. ’Tis much better to make your apologies heartfelt but brief, and then move along. Distract the lady from her wounds with a pretty bauble and then take her to some public place so she can display her trophy.”

  March nodded. Dogged or not, his cousin did make sense. He’d kept out a few more of the family’s jewels—necklaces, bracelets, and earbobs—that Carter and Boyce had brought for his inspection. He could give Charlotte one of those tonight, as she dressed. A sizable pair of pearls for her ears would surely count as a peacemaking bauble, and they’d be most handsome swinging against her neck, too.

  “Here now, March, I’ve a notion,” Brecon said, leaning forward. “Why don’t you come as my guest to the old Theatre Royal tonight? Introduce your lady to the delights of the playhouse. I’ve seats in my box that will go begging if you don’t, and you know how women love a good play.”

  Actually, March didn’t. Once he’d passed the age of ogling actresses and dancers with his friends when they’d come down to town from university, he’d lost interest in the gaudy foolishness of the theater, and he never had attended a play with a lady.

  But attending a play with Charlotte would be different. If his cousin recommended a diversion, then there couldn’t possibly be anything more diverting than this. To enter the Duke of Breconridge’s private box on the arm of her new husband, to have the whole playhouse turn to gaze at her as the new Duchess of Marchbourne and admire her clothes, her beauty, her general good fortune—what lady could wish for more?

  “That is a fine idea,” he admitted, imagining Charlotte’s excitement. He was almost certain she’d never seen a play, and he liked being the one to take her to her first. “I’ll accept your offer.”

  “It is a fine idea, and I cannot tell you how proud I shall be to have you as my guests.” Brecon grinned and tapped the stem of his pipe against his cheek. “You’ll see. After she makes merry with us and receives the admiration of the world, she’ll go home in as delightful a humor as any woman ever can.”

  At last March smiled, his first honest smile of the afternoon. He’d much prefer to have Charlotte in a delightful humor than gloomy as a sad-eyed puppy.

  “And then, cousin,” continued Brecon, “when you return to your house and your l
ady invites you to join her in her bedchamber—why, you, sir, will be the beneficiary, as well as the most contented bridegroom in London.”

  Although tonight’s play wasn’t new—a revival of Otway’s old Venice Preserv’d—the famed Mr. Garrick himself was again playing Pierre, one of his best roles. Every ticket was sold, and the crush inside the playhouse was rivaled only by the crowds on foot and in carriages outside in Drury Lane.

  “Hurry, March, hurry,” Charlotte said as they slowly made their way up the stairs to Breck’s box. “I don’t want to miss a moment of the play.”

  “We’re going as fast as we can, Charlotte,” he said, and in fact they were going faster than most others trying to get to their seats. Not only did they have footmen and ushers before them to clear their way through the crowd—for, as Charlotte was still learning, such was the power of a duke’s rank and wealth—but they’d an added advantage in specifically being the Duke and Duchess of Marchbourne.

  March would stand out in any crowd by merit of his height and presence, but tonight, dressed as he was in a magnificent suit of dark red silk, Charlotte was sure he must be the most gloriously handsome gentleman in all London. She liked how he refused to powder his dark hair or wear a fashionable wig, and she liked even more how he smiled only at her, no matter how many others greeted him.

  But as she let him lead her through the crowd, she realized that just as many of the people were staring at her. She wore a gown so new that it had been delivered from Mrs. Cartwright’s shop that afternoon. It was her first in the French style, a true robe à la française with a deep square neckline and graceful pleats that flowed down the back, drifting behind her as she walked. The silk was a pale gold stripe with puffs of lace and ribbon zigzagging along the two sides of the overskirt, and there were more ruffles and ribbons on her petticoat. Her stomacher was embroidered with pink silk carnations framed by gold lace, and she’d more lace at the deep cuffs on her sleeves.

  Yet as grand as her gown was, it paled beside the earrings that March had presented to her while she’d been dressing. Teardrop pearls swung from clusters of diamonds, the pearls so large that if she’d seen them anywhere else she would have been sure they were glass. Of course they weren’t, not from March. As she’d hooked them into her ears, he’d solemnly explained how the ladies in his family had always been famous for their pearls, and now she would be, too.