A Regency Duchess's Awakening: The Shy Duchess / To Kiss a Count

“I don’t know you at all, your Grace. Which is surely for the best, for both of us.”

His brow lowered in a frown. “What do you mean?”

“I mean …” Emily closed her eyes tightly. That confusion she felt whenever he was near came over her yet again, just when she most needed to be clear-headed. “Oh, your Grace! Nicholas. It was me, and I am so sorry.”

“It was you?” he said. He sounded as confused as she felt. “What do you mean? What was you?”

She opened her eyes and forced herself to look him in the face. He was gilded by the moonlight, his face and hair all molten gold like an ancient statue of some pagan god. She could bear it no longer. She had always been a terrible secret-keeper, except when it came to her teaching, and somehow keeping secrets from him was harder than anything. He was not like Mr Lofton, she reminded herself, or like Mr Rayburn. He deserved the truth from her.

“It was me at Vauxhall,” she whispered. “In the broken shoe. I didn’t mean anything by it, I promise, your Grace. I’m not sure what came over me, I just …”

Much to her shock, he laughed. Laughed! He kissed her hand again. “Shh, Lady Emily. Enough.”

She snatched her hand away. “Why are you laughing? I am completely serious!”

“I am not laughing at you. You just look so very—earnest, my lady. When I am the one who should confess and apologise.”

“You should …?”

“Yes. You see,” he said, ducking his head with a slightly sheepish expression incongruous for a duke. “You see, I discovered it was you before you confessed, and I must apologise to you.”

He knew? All along? And he had just let her stammer guiltily, let her feel terrible for days? “You knew it was me?” she cried, completely forgetting they were in a public place.

Emily suddenly felt angry. Anger was unladylike and, worse, unproductive. It did nothing with her family, and it never improved anything. Only work did that. But now she felt—yes, she felt angry! She pounded her fists against his chest. It hurt her hands, but he was so surprised she was actually able to drive him back a step before he steadied himself.

“Emily!” he said roughly. “Calm yourself. I never meant—”

“You never meant what? Never meant anything by kissing me, by letting me feel guilty about keeping it secret from you?” She hit him again and then again. “You were probably laughing at me! You and all your family.”

“Emily, be fair,” he said. He sounded angry now, too. Good—she didn’t want to be alone in this tantrum. His calmness only made her feel worse. “I have told no one, and will tell no one.”

“You tell your family everything, I know that.” She hit him yet again, that fury spiralling out of all reasonableness. It was as if every wrong, every hurt she had pressed down had broken free and was rising up now to choke her.

“Emily, please!” He grabbed her hands as she raised them to hit him yet again. Emily jerked away, but he held fast and pulled her close against his chest. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, as if to subdue her with his strength and heat.

“Please, calm down,” he said tightly, his lips pressed to the top of her head. “I swear, I never meant to hurt you. That would be the last thing I would ever want, to hurt someone again.”

Emily buried her face in his shoulder, trying to hold back her sobs. Her anger was ebbing away, as fast as it had come upon her, yet she still shook with it.

She had been vulnerable to him, not once, but twice now, and she did not like the feeling. It wasn’t safe.

But she couldn’t seem to move away from him. He seemed an anchor in the shaking storm of emotions. She curled her fingers into the front of his fine waistcoat and held on.

He held on to her, too, his arms tight around her. Was he afraid she would hit him again, start behaving like a shrieking fishwife once more?

“Did I hurt you?” she whispered. “I’ve never hit anyone before in my life.”

He laughed hoarsely, his breath stirring the curls at her temple. “I’ve endured worse. I have very lively brothers, remember?” He was silent for a moment before he went on, “I would not tell them about Vauxhall, I promise. Nor anyone else.”

“I would not want you to feel obligated in any way, just because I had too much punch and acted like a fool.”

“Lady Emily, I do not feel obligated. But I must say—”

Emily leaned back in his arms and uncurled her hand from his waistcoat to reach up and press her finger to his lips.

“I don’t want to talk about this any longer,” she said. “It is over and past.” “No, I must—”

She didn’t know what else to do, so she went up on tiptoe and kissed him. It was soft and tentative, a way to make him be quiet. But the taste of him, the way his mouth felt on hers—it sent her back to the Vauxhall woods and she fell down and down into that blurry abyss of need.

His hands closed over her shoulders, as if to push her away. Then he groaned, a wild sound deep in his throat, and his arms came around her again and dragged her against his body.

His mouth hardened on hers, his tongue tracing the curve of her lips before plunging inside to taste her deeply. The fire of her anger turned to desire, and she wanted more of his kiss. More of him.

He pressed her back against the window, his open mouth sliding from hers to trace her jaw, her arched neck. He lightly nipped at that sensitive little spot just below her ear and then licked it when she moaned.

How did he do this to her? She was never herself when she was with him! She wasn’t even sure she liked it—it was too wild, too uncontrollable—but she couldn’t seem to stop it.

She twined her fingers in his hair and dragged him up to her lips again. He went most obligingly, eagerly, kissing her with a heated artlessness and need that ignited her own.

She pressed herself even closer to him, wanting to be ever nearer and nearer. Wanting she knew not what. But her sudden movement sent him off balance, and he stumbled backward into the bank of potted palms.

Emily landed hard atop him, and the impact, along with the crash of plants to the floor, shocked her awake. It was like a cold rain suddenly falling over her head.

“Your Grace?” someone said in a hushed, shocked voice.

Emily, still lying prone on Nicholas’s chest, peered up through the loosened skein of her hair. At least ten people stared back, including Nicholas’s brother Lord Stephen, Jane and Mr Rayburn, and their hostess. Lady Arnold covered her open mouth with a trembling hand, looking as if she was about to faint at this terrible disruption to her elegant ball.

This was a nightmare. It simply had to be. It couldn’t be real, couldn’t be happening to her. Not to the Ice Princess, the most proper lady in all London.

She closed her eyes, tugged her rumpled sleeve back up on to her shoulder, and prayed for deliverance from the bad dream.

But when she opened her eyes it was all still there. She was trapped, frozen.

Nicholas lifted her off him and rose to his feet in one smooth movement. He held on to her hand and kept her firmly by his side.

“Lady Arnold,” he said. He sounded only the merest bit unsteady. “I am sorry to disrupt your ball. Lady Emily and I were going to announce our betrothal at a small family dinner, but I see we should do so now. Lady Emily has made me the happiest man in England by agreeing to be my wife.”

“Oh!” Lady Arnold exhaled. Her dismay vanished in an instant, replaced by utter delight. Her ball’s fame would be assured by such a momentous announcement. “Oh, Lady Emily. Your Grace. Let me be the first to wish you happy.”

Emily suddenly found herself clasped in Jane’s arms as her friend rushed forwards to kiss her cheek. “Emily! Why did you not tell me? Oh, my darling friend! When is the wedding to be? Shall I be your bridesmaid?”

Over Jane’s shoulder, Emily saw Nicholas swept into the jubilant crowd, which had suddenly swelled in numbers. His brother clasped his hand. Lord Stephen smiled, but Emily saw the strained look on his face as he whispered in Nicholas’s ear.

Mr Rayburn, her erstwhile suitor, stood off to one side, not even trying to smile. His face was dark with anger.

And, curse it all, her mother and brother appeared in the terrace doorway, looking absolutely, disgustingly jubilant.

Emily did not know how she felt at all. One instant, she was kissing Nicholas, all thought flown away, and now she was engaged to him. Engaged. To the Duke of Manning.

“Now, your Grace, you must dance with your fiancée,” Lady Arnold cried. “I absolutely insist.”

And now she had to dance, too? Emily’s legs were so weak she was sure she couldn’t take a step let alone dance. “No,” she whispered.

Nicholas took her hand again, holding her close as if he sensed her stunned state. The look in his own eyes was also quite disbelieving. There would be no escape among the stars for either of them, not now.

“I think my bride is a bit tired from all the excitement this evening,” he said. “Perhaps a glass of water and a place to sit down is more in order.”

He smiled at her, and she forced herself to smile back. Yes—no escape indeed.

Chapter Nine

Nicholas lunged forwards with his sword, driving his opponent back in a furious volley of attacks and blows. The clash of steel rang loud in the humid air, echoing and reverberating like thunder. Sweat dripped down his brow and into his eyes, hot and stinging. His linen shirt clung to his back. Yet still he fought on.

It was as if a demon rode him onwards, driving him with an angry frustration that would not be defeated. His opponent could only raise his own blade in an attempt at defence, trying to hold his ground.

Nicholas swung his arm in a wide arc, knocking the other man’s blade out of his way as easily as if it was made of paper. He bashed against it for good measure, relishing the loud clang, the reverberation of impact up his arm, before pressing the tip of his sword to his opponent’s throat.

The other man dropped his blade to the floor and threw his arms wide. “A hit, your Grace! Very well done indeed.”

Nicholas fell back a step. He wiped at his damp brow with the back of his arm, sucking in a deep breath as he tried to push away the remnants of that blood-lust. It still pounded in his veins, a loud rush in his ears.

“Thank you, Mr Watson,” he said. “The exercise was just what I needed today.”

“Your form was a bit off, if I may say so, your Grace,” Mr Watson said, stripping off his heavy leather gloves. Watson was the fencing master at Gerard’s Saloon for Gentlemen, and had been tutoring Nicholas in the art of swordsmanship for many months.

The Saloon was a great retreat from his ducal duties and the demands of society. It was a place where Nicholas could box or fence, could feel the raw physical life in his muscles and forget everything else. The rest of the world could be left at the doorstep.

Usually. Today, the world insisted on following him inside and riding on his shoulder as he fought. He was betrothed. To Lady Emily Carroll.

Every time he swung the sword he remembered that fact. He saw her pale, stricken face in his mind, felt her cold hand in his as she stood beside him and faced all those deluded well-wishers at the ball. She had said scarcely anything for the rest of the ghastly evening, and she never looked him in the eye.

Was that only last night? It felt like a century ago. That ball, so full of happy smiles and congratulations from everyone but the prospective bride, seemed to last a decade in itself.

He and Emily would not have chosen each other in a perfect world. She would certainly never have chosen him, as her frozen, statue-like demeanor last night showed all too clearly. And he, despite the strange way he seemed drawn to her despite his better judgement and prudence, would never have married at all. The title of Duchess of Manning seemed cursed after the fates of his mother and stepmother.

This was not a promising start to their match. If there was any way to honorably cry off he would certainly do it. But there was not, and he was not his father. He would do the honorable thing, whether he—or Emily—liked it or not.

Even if it killed him.

He stood up straight, balancing the hilt of the sword on his palm. “Shall we go another round, Mr Watson?”

Watson laughed. “I fear not, your Grace. You have quite exhausted me today, and I would recommend you not exhaust yourself. I understand you have a wedding to plan.”

“How do you know that?” Nicholas said. He cursed soundly at the speed gossip spread, even to the Saloon. There was no escaping it anywhere.

“I think everyone knows, your Grace. They do say the lady is enormously beautiful.”

“Yes.” Nicholas thought of Emily’s pale, heart-shaped face, her bright green eyes, her slender figure. So beautiful, and so fragile. “She is.”

“May I offer my congratulations, your Grace? Everyone here at the Saloon wishes you great happiness.”

Great happiness? Nicholas almost laughed aloud. They all might as well wish he could go to the moon. Married happiness in his family, it seemed, had already been taken up by his sisters.

“Thank you, Mr Watson,” he said.

“Nick!” Stephen called.

Nicholas glanced over to see his brother at the edge of the room, just beyond the other practising fencers. He tossed his blade to Watson and hurried over to Stephen.

“You were fierce out there today,” Stephen said. “I thought you were going to skewer poor Watson. Angry about something, perhaps?”

“Never mind about me,” Nicholas said impatiently. “Did you get it?”

“Yes, and in record time, too. Being a duke, or bearing a duke’s letter, certainly has its advantages.” Stephen reached inside his coat and drew out a folded and sealed document.

A special licence. Now he and Emily could be married wherever and whenever they chose. And if word of their betrothal had spread even to the Saloon and its environs, the wedding would have to be soon.

“I fetched this as well, as you asked,” Stephen said. He held out a small jewellery box. “I’m not sure it’s a very good idea to use it, though. Seems very bad luck indeed.”

Nicholas opened the box and stared down at the ring it held, a twist of gold studded with small diamonds like raindrops on a branch. His mother’s ring. It had been his grandmother’s before that, and his great-grandmother’s, Manning brides for generations.

It had seemed a fine gesture of continuity, but now that he saw it he was sure Stephen’s superstitions were quite right for once. He could only picture it on his mother’s finger. She had worn it long after her marriage disintegrated, a symbol of a spectacularly failed match.

He didn’t want to see it on Emily’s hand. They had enough against them already with the cursed title of Duchess.

He snapped the box shut. “You’re right, Stephen. A new ring would suit her better. Maybe an emerald.”

“You know, Nick,” Stephen said slowly, as if he was reluctant to say it but felt he should, “you do not have to do this.”

“Of course I have to. You were there, you saw what happened. I will not be another in the long line of Manning cads.”

“You are not like that!” Stephen protested. “But remember how it was with our parents, how unhappy they were. And how that unhappiness infected their children, too.”

Children. Nicholas shook his head hard, trying to dislodge the sudden, hideous image of Emily white and still, a dead infant in her arms. No. That would not happen again. He would not hurt another woman like that again, he would find a way to stop it.

“It won’t be that way for Lady Emily and me,” he said. “We can live contentedly together after a time, I’m sure. Besides, I’m the duke. You and our sisters have been telling me I need to marry, to find a duchess. Why not her? She is quite suitable.”

“Suitable!” Stephen burst out. “Nick, she is pretty, of course, and of good family. But she is so—so cold. How can you find contentment with someone they call the Ice Princess?”

Nicholas laughed. Emily was certainly not cold. Sometimes she burned like the hottest summer day, until she remembered herself and drew away again. “Things are not always as they appear, Brother. I will marry Lady Emily, because I must, and I will find a way to make the best of it for us both. You and the others have to welcome her into our family.”

Stephen scowled, but at last he nodded. “I will do my best, for you. And Justine always cares for everyone. I’m not sure about Annalise or Charlotte, though.”

Nicholas’s youngest sisters did have minds, and iron wills, of their own. But they always did what was best for the family in the end. “Once they come to know Emily, all will be well.”

“I hope you are right,” Stephen said doubtfully.

“Of course I am. Dukes are always right,” Nicholas said with confidence. Inside, though, he was simply not so sure. Emily was a strange lady, impossible to read or decipher. One minute he was sure he understood her at last, and then she went and did something utterly unpredictable.

“Let’s go,” he said. “It seems I must shop for a new ring.”

“I think you should go home and bathe first, Nick,” Stephen said. “You smell like a dockside tavern after all the sweat you’ve shed today.”

Ah, yes—that was what families were really for. Keeping things honest in a painfully polite world.

“Fine,” he said. “Home first, then the shops. Then I must call on my bride.”

They soon left the Saloon, Nicholas moderately tidied up, and set off for Manning House. The carriage had been left at home that day, so they were on foot. After the fifth person stopped them to wish him happy, though, he thought better of that decision.

“Shall we hire a hackney, Stephen?” he asked. Then his gaze was caught by a figure moving purposefully down the street, dodging around the other pedestrians as if she did not see them at all. But the light glowed on the golden curls peeking from beneath the plain straw bonnet.

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