Regency Redemption: The Inconvenient Duchess / An Unladylike Offer. Christine Merrill

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      She was still shaking with mingled passion and panic. How dare he? In a church! In front of the vicar! And she had responded like a common whore. If the kiss had been some sort of test of her experience, she’d probably confirmed his worst fears. Her empty stomach roiled and she covered her mouth, afraid to look at the vicar’s wife lest she be sick on the marble floor. It would only have made the situation worse.

      And her husband would not have noticed. He was already striding out of the chapel and down the hall, following St John at a safe distance, probably to make sure that he was headed towards the stables and away.

      She straightened her back and turned to the vicar and his wife, forcing a smile to her face. ‘Well.’ The word was artificially cheery. ‘I must thank you, Reverend Winslow, and Mrs Winslow, for your concern in the matter of my safety and honour.’

      ‘Hmm. Well, of course, the concern continues, your Grace.’

      For a moment she looked around, expecting to see her husband behind her, and then realised that he was addressing her, the new duchess.

      ‘Thank you, yet again. But I am certain, now that we are married, I will do well here.’

      They continued to stare at her. She had hoped that ‘good day’ was implied in her thanks, but they showed no sign of leaving. They must be expecting something. ‘Well,’ she said again but the cheer in her voice was running thin.

      ‘Perhaps, over the wedding breakfast, we might speak to his Grace once more. To make sure there is nothing further required of us.’ Mrs Winslow’s pointed remark led the way to yet another problem.

      ‘Ah, yes. The wedding breakfast.’ Miranda wondered if anyone on the staff had considered guests. She doubted, after watching his mood in the church, that her husband cared to celebrate. Still, if she could not come up with a bit of cake and some champagne, she might as well find a maid to ready a room for the Winslows. They showed no sign of leaving. ‘Let us go back to the house and see what the servants are preparing.’

      She walked them back and abandoned them in the drawing room with promises of a speedy return, then ran into the hall and shouted for Wilkins.

      He appeared looking as stooped and addled as he had the day before, giving her a long, fishy look that made her suspect he had forgotten who she was.

      ‘Wilkins.’ Her tone was sharp, hoping to cut through the fog of gin in his mind. ‘I need you to find his Grace and ask him to return to the house to say goodbye to the Winslows. And I need to speak to the housekeeper about preparing a small wedding breakfast.’

      ‘Breakfast.’ The word had registered, judging by the panic that crossed his face. ‘That won’t be likely, miss. Housekeeper’s off today.’

      In a flash, the mess she had landed in spread itself before her. The house was unmanageable, the servants intractable, the duke antisocial and oblivious to the chaos around him.

      And, after twenty minutes of rote prayer, she was in charge.

      ‘First, Wilkins—’ her voice was silky smooth ‘—you will no longer refer to me as “Miss”. After the ceremony in the chapel this morning, my title is her Grace, the Duchess of Haughleigh. Since I doubt you remember my old name, you need waste little time in forgetting it. If the housekeeper is off, than she needs to make other arrangements for the management of the house while she is gone. Who, exactly, is in charge in her absence?’

      Wilkins’s blank eyes and furrowed brow were answer enough.

      ‘Very well. I will assume no one is in charge, since this is certainly the appearance the house creates. Is the cook available? Sober? Alive? Do we even have a cook, Wilkins?’

      ‘Yes, miss—ma’am—your Grace.’ With each new title, his back got straighter as he addressed her.

      ‘Then you will inform the cook that, if she values her position here, there will be a wedding breakfast laid in the dining room in forty-five minutes. I do not expect a miracle. Just the most she can manage on such short notice. And a bottle or two of the best champagne in the cellars to take our mind off the food. Please find the duke and ask him to join us in the drawing room.’

      The speech must have hit home, for Wilkins toddled off in the direction of the kitchen at a speed as yet unseen by her.

      Then she turned with as much majesty and command as she could muster and headed back into the drawing room, trying to radiate her half of marital bliss.

      The Winslows were perched on the edges of their respective chairs, awaiting her arrival. She informed them of the brief delay and set to holding up her end of the conversation, which was rather like supporting a dead ox. Topics such as family, past, friends, and thoughts for her future had been exhausted or avoided in the morning’s interviews with Mrs Winslow.

      Efforts to draw the Winslows out on their own lives proved them to be neither well travelled, nor intelligent.

      The clock was ticking by with no evidence of the arrival of the duke. It would serve him right to enter and find himself the topic of conversation. She tried hesitantly, ‘Have you known the Radwell family long, Reverend? For other than connections with the dowager through a guardian of mine, they are strangers to me.’

      ‘Hmm. Well, yes. I’ve been in the area, man and boy, most of my life. Things were different under the old duke,’ he hinted.

      ‘How so?’ She doubted such a direct request for information was going to be met with an answer, but it was worth a try.

      The vicar shot a nervous glance at the doorway, as though expecting the appearance of the current duke at the mention of his name. But Mrs Winslow was no longer able to contain the dark secrets she knew. ‘The old duke would not have held with the nonsense his sons have got up to. He knew his duty and the land was a showplace while he controlled it. The fourth duke tried for a few years to hold up to his father’s standards, but gave up the ghost after his first wife died, leaving the poor dowager alone to manage as best she could. And Lord St John …’ she shook her head and sniffed for emphasis ‘… has never made any effort to make his family’s life any easier. From the moment he was old enough to distinguish the difference between the sexes and read the numbers on a deck of cards or count the spots on the dice, there has always been a debt that he has been running from. It is my opinion that the dowager died more of a broken heart than anything else.’

      ‘The current duke …’

      And, as if summoned, the door opened and framed Marcus.

      The vicar’s wife shut her mouth with a snap.

      ‘If I might see you for a moment in the hall, Miranda.’

      The word ‘now’ was unspoken, but plain enough. And the sound of her name on his lips was strange, indeed. There was something about the way he said the ‘r’ that seemed to vibrate into a growl.

      ‘If you will excuse me, for a moment, Reverend, Mrs Winslow?’ And she rose quickly to join her husband in the hall.

      ‘Your Grace?’

      ‘You demanded my attendance, Miranda?’ He sketched a mocking bow to her.