The Perks of being a Duchess (Middleton Novel Book 2) Read online

  It was done.

  He caught one of Holly’s sisters surveying the church and had to suppress another wave of annoyance at his bride’s lack of punctuality. That same displeasure had him seeking out his pocket watch again. To hell with what anyone thought.

  What the deuce was taking her so long?

  Finally—after what felt like eons—the bride appeared across the aisle and the piano started up. The tension in his shoulders eased.

  She wore a veil. Not uncommon, though most brides preferred to do without them. This one wasn’t particularly long, and it was layered. He could hardly make out any of her features. Did the veil hide swollen eyes from a night of weeping? Or a face flushed with misery?

  But before he could ponder the matter further, Ambrose’s attention was pulled to the rousing of hushed whispers. He surveyed the snickering guests with growing unease.

  Inside his belly, his innards clenched.

  His eyes darted back to Holly. She appeared the perfect bride. Her gown was fit for a duchess. Only . . . What the bloody . . . Creamy pale flesh met his view when his gaze lowered to the hem of her dress. Her skin stood out in stark contrast to the blue slippers that nestled on her feet.

  Ambrose fought down the urge to scowl. What had Miss Middleton done?

  This was all his fault. He should have known she’d act out in some way. The Middletons usually skirted around convention effortlessly enough. She had been bound to do something. He ought to have anticipated this. But call him mad, he hadn’t expected Holly to make their wedding the spectacle of London.

  Damn his father and the conditions of his will. He hadn’t been able to find a single flaw in the document, and by Jove, he had searched. And because of that search, he had waited until the last possible moment to take a wife, leading him to partake in desperate measures to secure one. And now here he stood, waiting for the ankle-displaying Middleton chit to make her way down the aisle.

  Had he a choice, Ambrose would not have taken a wife at all. Let the title pass to his brother, Jonathan and his offspring. It was the perfect solution. All tied up in a neat little bow.

  Except his father hadn’t agreed.

  The man must be laughing in his grave this very minute.

  And where was his brother anyway? He ought to have been here, beside Ambrose. Luckily no one had taken notice of his absence, compliments to his bride and her ankles.

  What was Holly thinking? Did she mean to punish him? The rules were there for her well-being, to keep her healthy and strong. Was this one last attempt at defiance? Or the beginning of several?

  Frustration rode him hard. Still, his mask never once slipped. Already, his brain devised a story to counteract any gossip. It would take much more than setting a new wedding trend to ruffle his proverbial feathers.

  Then a booming voice called out, his words echoing off the walls of the church. At that, Ambrose admitted one little feather did ruffle. Fortunately, years of practice had awarded him with remarkable composure. He made sure that he did not move a muscle as silence stretched out like a vast ocean in response to the cry “What on God’s green earth are you doing?”

  Had the little minx arranged that too?

  One could almost believe the voice belonged to God, seeing as, from his position at the front of the church, the voice had no shape or form attached to it.

  What a spectacle.

  When no further comment followed and no one appeared, he watched as his bride once again proceeded to make her way to him.

  He let out a small breath.

  Soon he would be married and all the unpleasantness of the past twelve months would be laid to rest.

  Except he would be leg-shackled.

  Nevertheless, Ambrose could move on with his life.

  He paid enough attention to the ceremony to know when his lines were, but other than that, his mind wandered—mostly to his bride. His body prickled with awareness with her standing so close to him, her head stopping just shy of his shoulder. Her scent was different today. Not the fruity tone of orange blossoms he had come to expect from Holly, but more flowery.

  Jasmine.

  Soft. Light. Pure.

  Ambrose gritted his teeth. What was he doing? He had no business noticing her scent. Neither did his body have any business seeking to inhale deep lungfuls of her air.

  He was impatient for this matter to be settled, that was all.

  One would think, in this day and age, they would have discovered a more convenient way to suitably marry other than submit oneself to this stretched-out pomp.

  Why should a business arrangement be celebrated, in any case?

  Ambrose hated public spectacles. If he had gotten his way, they’d be married privately with only a select number of witnesses. But his mother had insisted. To keep up appearance, she had said, because of the hasty nature of the marriage. And God help him if he did not give his mother what she wanted.

  The one thing he hated more than public spectacles was a woman that wailed in his ears.

  His mind drifted back to his bride. Had he not waited this long in search of an escape clause, had he just accepted his inevitable fate, he’d have taken his time in selecting a wife. A lady of demure stature. A wallflower, maybe. He would never have chosen Holly Middleton with her dreamy eyes and bleeding heart.

  Ambrose could imagine those eyes, red and swollen beneath her veil. Except something about his betrothed gave him pause. It was hard to say why. The determined set of her shoulders? The blue slippers with her soft pink dress? Or perhaps it was the entire package. Something about her did not ring true. And suddenly and inexplicably, he was certain puffy eyes were not what he’d find.

  His gaze flicked over her. Dread and something unnamable spread through him.

  This wasn’t Holly Middleton. This wasn’t his bride.

  The blue slippers did not provide for much height and Holly’s head had never quite reached his shoulder. Now, it suddenly did.

  He peered down at the woman, studying her with the unwavering attention of a predator. It was a Middleton, but not the one he had agreed upon to marry.

  His eyes darted to where her sister sat in the front row. He couldn’t recall the chit’s name. Something flowery. And there was a sister missing. He couldn’t recall her name either, except for the frosty looks she’d always cast him whenever he called upon Holly. The chits had always just been Miss Middleton to him.

  Ambrose marveled at the lack of attention he had paid. Usually he was much more astute when it came to names. But he hadn’t bothered to take much note of his bride’s sisters—or their names. There had been matters of more importance to occupy his mind and they, well, they were just there.

  A duty. An annoyance. A necessity.

  Ambrose almost dragged a hand over his face then and there. He was tired. It had been a long year. Perhaps he was imagining things. This could simply not be happening to him.

  Behind him, scores of eyes burned into his back. Ambrose knew that weddings were nothing but theatre where one entertained an audience with all the props of the latest fashions, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that his bride was going to give them much more than what they came for—that she’d give them a real show.

  When the ceremony finally came to the portion where they repeated their vows, he tensed, but his voice was firm and resolute as he repeated his vows. Then his eyes drifted over her concealed face as she repeated her own.

  “I, Miss Middleton—” his hands twitched, “—take this man to be my wedded husband . . .” The voice confirmed it. This wasn’t Holly Middleton. “. . . Death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”

  Another proverbial feather rose.

  Whoever this woman was, she had left out an important part of her vows. Which brought him to the question: what the hell was he going to do? He had precious little options—no options, in fact—but to see this through, thanks so his father’s will.

  All the same, that did not
stop him from spending the remainder of the ceremony pondering, arguing and debating the best course of action.

  And after, when it became apparent his wife would never lift the damn lace from her face, he reached out and lifted the thing, already knowing, but still praying, he was wrong.

  He wasn’t.

  Sky-blue eyes stared up at him, set in a face that didn’t belong to his betrothed. Astonishment engulfed him even though deep down he’d known. The emotion was so unexpected he had no time to school his features from the shock.

  His mask slipped.

  For one, gut-wrenching moment, Ambrose felt exposed, as though she, this Miss Middleton, could see straight through his purposely erected armor.

  Fury began to unfold in the inner reaches of his heart.

  Ambrose had been deceived.

  Outwitted.

  Jilted.

  He dropped a curtain over any emotion, pushed down his disbelief. In its place rage churned, retaliation beckoned.

  A tiny part of him, a sliver of thought really, wondered whether it mattered. He was married. His father’s will was met. Perhaps he should leave it be. But that was only a fleeting moment of weakness. It bloody well did matter. It was a matter of principle. And pride. He was a Duke. Powerful. And he had been tricked. He had been weighed and found wanting by Holly bloody Middleton. On the day of their wedding.

  He would not stand for it!

  Ambrose noted with some measure of satisfaction that a flush crept across his bride’s cheeks as she recognized his anger.

  This Middleton possessed some sense.

  Ambrose ignored the rising chatter of the guests. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see some of their heads bent low, attempting to piece together whether they had gotten the details of the wedding wrong. But Ambrose knew what the invitation read. He had written the lines himself. This would turn into a nightmare if he did not put a stop to it right this moment.

  So he did the only thing that came to mind.

  He lowered his head and kissed the bride.

  At first, he felt her hand rest against his chest and half-heartedly push, but he did not stir. Before the entire Church, before their family, before God, he claimed her as his. She and her sister might have tricked him, but over his dead body would he allow the ton to question their union. The kiss made his position clear—she was his chosen bride.

  Then she breathed a soft note of peppermint into him and Ambrose found himself knocked off balance. The delicate curve of her lips softened beneath his and the sensation hit him like a ton of bricks.

  He felt her grip his lapel in response to his tongue grazing along her lower lips. She was holding onto him, pulling him closer. But even her sultry, pliant mouth wasn’t truly what caused his heart to hammer in his chest. It was the sweet flavor of the fragrance mixed on her skin, the light notes of jasmine that elevated him to heaven.

  A throat clearing broke the spell and Ambrose pulled away from her. Bewilderment swamped him. He glared down into equally dazed cerulean eyes with grim displeasure.

  So the kiss had stirred her too? Well, he would pretend his lips didn’t burn at the loss of contact. But he did intend to warn her that there would be no backing away from this commitment, no running like her sister, so he leaned forward and whispered wife in her ear.

  The word sent a zap of something sharp through him. He pushed the unruly feeling aside. What he needed to do was gather his wits to salvage the situation, not feel unfamiliar sensations.

  Ambrose turned away and swiftly signed the registry and waited for his wife to do the same.

  Done. It was done.

  He offered his arm, keeping his features cool, not daring to betray how much she or that kiss had disturbed him. He strolled past all the curious stares, back straight and head held high like he wasn’t a duke that had just been duped.

  Wouldn’t that make for a grand title in the gossip rags?

  In truth, Ambrose was on the verge of exploding. Only those who knew him well would recognize his rigid posture for what it was: fury. And he was furious. But these people, this flock of vultures, would see nothing but an arrogant duke.

  Ambrose cringed at the familiar wail of his mother.

  Not bloody now.

  Where the hell was his brother when he needed him most? Now Ambrose had to deal with a treacherous little wife and a caterwauling mother on his own.

  The dowager’s reaction would only fuel the gossip. She ought to know that weeping at such a time would cause rumors to rampage. Especially now when it was crucial to keep up appearances.

  Ambrose shook his head, his mind spinning. He would deposit his wife in the waiting carriage and then he’d return for his mother.

  But first.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he hissed between clenched teeth in his wife’s ear.

  “The meaning of what?” His bride countered, smiling at one of the guests.

  “You know very well what I’m referring to.”

  “Then you ought to have no trouble understanding the meaning of what just happened.”

  “I understand a great deal. What I want to know is why I find myself married to you and not your sister.”

  “I daresay you know the answer to that question as well.”

  Was that censure he detected in her tone? From her?

  Ambrose wanted to shake her. Growl. Kick something. Hard. Never in his life had he felt this rattled before. Not even when he had read the conditions of his father’s last words. Was this what marriage would always be like? Constantly angry? Forever swindled by one’s wife?

  Once outside, he stiffly ushered her into their waiting carriage. He could hear his mother just behind them, and already his brain wove a tale of mothers and emotions and weddings. She was prone to dramatic behavior, after all. Everyone in London was aware of that.

  A good number of guests had followed them out, along with the still-wailing dowager. He could hear them openly speculating about the bride. Somewhere off to the right, Ambrose heard the words heathen wedding swap, and he shot a glare that way. The guests shrunk back at his withering look, and he turned back to the carriage just as his bride cast his mother A Look.

  The woman was brazen, all right. Whether that was a good or a bad thing would yet be determined. But she had spunk; it bled from her like water seeping through small cracks littered over a wall.

  Of their own volition, Ambrose’s eyes dropped to her lips. His own began to tingle as he recalled their kiss. He wondered what his wife would make of it if she knew she’d been the first woman he had ever kissed in such a sensual manner. That he had only been with one woman his entire life—his former mistress—and they never kissed. At least not beyond the occasional peck on the temple or cheek.

  That had been her one rule.

  She had claimed kissing was an act more intimate than intercourse, and their arrangement was one for pleasure and not intimacy. Ambrose had left it at that. But that was then, and this was now.

  Just then, his mother’s wailing suddenly stopped.

  Ambrose frowned and swung around. Had his mother suddenly controlled herself? He doubted it.

  What the bloody . . .

  Surrounded by a circle of London’s worst gossips, his mother—in a heap of crumpled taffeta silk—lay sprawled in the dirt.

  Hell.

  Chapter 3

  The mark of a great man, some would say, is his ability to navigate through impossible situations with great ease. Willow’s husband appeared to be such a man. Other than his initial slip in countenance, one that had pleased her more than she cared to admit, not once did he betray emotion, even though he must be furious. It was simply impossible to tell from looking at him. But he had known. Somewhere during the ceremony, something had alerted him to her deceit.

  And still he married her.

  Bittersweet emotion centered in her chest.

  She was wed to the stick-in-the-mud Duke of St. Ives. But she was married. She had done it. She had pulled
it off by the skin of her teeth, but she had done it. Whether she would remain wed, Willow supposed, was another matter. Annulment was still an option.

  Of course, that would leave her entire family in ruin. The papers would have a blast with this scandal as it was. Willow could just imagine the title should the duke annul the marriage. The Great Deception: Miss Middleton jilts The Duke of St. Ives only for the duke to jilt Miss Middleton.

  Willow settled into the carriage just in time for the arrival of her sobbing mother-in-law. She shot the dowager a disapproving look.

  The woman was making everything worse with her tears.

  And then, to Willow’s amazement, the dowager collapsed into a pile of heaping skirts.

  The scene was truly remarkable.

  The duke swore and rushed to his mother’s side. Two footmen hurried to assist while another woman, with a hat that resembled a furry creature, revived the dowager with smelling salts.

  Willow let out a sigh. The day had only just begun and she was ready for it to end.

  Seconds later, her mother-in-law was settled in the carriage next to her son, who installed himself across from Willow.

  A crowd had gathered, tittering behind their fans, rudely speculating about the turn of events. Just before the carriage door shut, Willow glimpsed Poppy, her face pale as a sheet of paper, eyes round with shock.

  I’m sorry, Willow mouthed before Poppy was replaced by the drawn velvet curtains of the carriage door. Remorse clawed at her heart. The sisters told each other everything. And today they stood divided. Holly did not know what Willow had done and she, in return, did not know where her sister had run off to. Poor Poppy, she knew even less than the both of them.

  The entire morning had been a hellish whirlwind. At least the duke had not been deserted at the altar. That ought to count for something. But one glance at his hard features told Willow it would not be as simple as all that.

  “How could this have happened?” The Dowager cried. “Oh, the horror!”