PROLOGUE
AUTUMN 1813
Richard stood at the altar in his family’s ancient chapel, waiting for his bride. His wedding day – a day he’d often thought would never arrive. He’d had hopes and dreams, years ago, but his life had not been of the kind that encouraged settled habits of domesticity, or even an expectation of surviving till the end of the week. Lately, of course, the matter had become a pressing concern. But if he had ever imagined that mysterious person, his future wife, before the last few months – and he was not admitting, even to himself, that he had – he was perfectly sure he’d not expected her to be someone who loathed him and made little attempt to disguise it.
No, he mused, that wasn’t right; she didn’t loathe him, because despite everything, she barely knew him. It might be true, of course, that nobody did, and that he’d made sure of that himself, and should not complain. Perhaps when she knew him better, she’d truly hate him; that was a risk he had to take. But currently, she despised him, that was more accurate, and not without cause. It was stingingly ironic, because there were many other women who seemed to think he was rather wonderful, if dangerous, and yet he was marrying this angry, scornful one instead. And he couldn’t honestly say he’d have it any other way. She no doubt felt differently. But that, too, was his own fault.
She was vexingly late, probably on purpose, and the congregation stirred restlessly, but he was reasonably confident she wouldn’t fail.
There was a subdued bustle at the back of the small chapel now, and he turned, unable to help himself, and watched her progress up the aisle. She was magnificent: an undeniable fact. She’d not arrayed herself in pale colours, as young brides so often did, but that was reasonable, because she was a mature woman of nine and twenty, a mother and a widow. There were other people in the church, her family members rather than his, but he had no attention to spare for any of them, and they might easily not have been there. Her children, he knew, were not present to see their mother marry again and the only father they’d ever known replaced by a stranger.
Viola, Duchess of Winterflood, was wearing a dark red velvet riding habit, rather than the fine day-gown which would be more usual. Probably it was intended as an insult to him, as though she’d just wandered back from a morning’s hard riding and strolled casually across to the family chapel to get married, because it wasn’t even the second or third most important thing in her busy day. But he didn’t care, because she looked so splendid. He’d wager she knewthattoo.
She was tall and voluptuous, fashionably dark – her hair was glossy raven black, in fact, save for the white streak at her widow’s peak. She’d not had that, when he’d first known her, but it became her. He had no idea when it had made its appearance – when her first husband had died, perhaps. Her locks were piled up on her queenly head, and topped by an audaciously masculine black beaver hat, such as he might wear himself. A black eye-veil brushed her pale cheeks, and partially concealed her bright, dark, stormy eyes. He wondered, distractingly, what she’d done with her whip. Perhaps he’d find out later.
Her habit was not high-waisted, in the current mode, but made like a man’s suit of clothes, at least above the waist: it was tight to her lush body, over a patterned silk waistcoat and a crisp white shirt worn with a rakish black cravat. Her breasts… this wasn’t the place or time to be thinking about her breasts. But Jesus, her breasts.
The full velvet skirt swished over the flagstones as she grew closer, on the arm of her brother-in-law, Laurence Da Costa, who seemed a pleasant enough fellow but was a negligible creature beside her, and did not merit so much as a glance from the bridegroom, or anyone else. She stopped at Richard’s side and the man melted rapidly away, as if anxious to disassociate himself from the proceedings if he could, perhaps because he feared that the bride was about to start throwing things – hymn books, maybe – or laying about her with the altar candlesticks.
She was here. So she really did mean to go through with it. That was something – everything, in truth, though she most definitely wasn’t smiling or looking dewy-eyed with eagerness. If she ever smiled these days, it wasn’t at him. Richard had no idea what sort of expression he might have on his face. Naked lust, most likely, rather than any more complicated feelings he might have revealed. Which wasn’t calculated to win her over – but then, it wasn’t calculated at all. It was a natural, honest reaction to one of the loveliest and most desirable women he’d ever seen in all his varied experience across the world. His reluctant bride.
They spoke the words in turn. His first time saying them – not hers. Her voice was deep for a woman, musical, and entirely devoid of any sort of emotion. She had stripped off her black leather gloves before she put her cold hand in his, so that he could put his ring on her. The other one, he noticed, Edward’s ring, was gone now.
When all was done, he stepped forward instinctively to kiss her, and she turned her cheek sharply so that his lips just brushed her skin. The brief contact made her shiver, and he felt it as an electric jolt through his own responsive body, but he had no idea if her reaction was caused by desire or repulsion. Or some dangerous mixture of both. She whispered in his ear, ‘You may fuck me, Lord Ventris, but you will never kiss me. That was the agreement.’
He said coolly, ‘My apologies, madam. I thought to make a public show of affection, but you’re right, of course.’
‘Don’t forget it again.’
‘I assure you, I won’t.’
She turned away from him – it would have appeared to the assembled guests that they had shared a tender little private moment instead of a stinging reproach – and they faced the throng together as husband and wife, ready to receive congratulations, her hand steady on his arm. Though he knew it was an illusion, Richard felt as though her touch was burning through the wool of his sleeve and the fine fabric of his shirt, to the skin beneath. Whatever other challenges they faced, and there were many, a lack of fierce mutual desire was not one of them, as they both had good cause to know.
Now she was his. But it was going to be a long, long evening till he could claim her.
1
A FEW WEEKS EARLIER
Viola stood on the steps with her arms wrapped tight around herself and watched as the carriage with its ducal crest rumbled off down the long drive. Loose strands of hair, black and stark white, had worked themselves free and whipped about her face in the strong breeze, blurring her vision along with the tears she had been suppressing. She’d normally be accompanied by a group of excited spaniels of varying ages, but they’d been locked away in the stables till the coach was safely out of the way, or they’d have chased after it. If they’d realised what it signified, they’d have been howling inconsolably, threatening her precious self-control.
Even when the vehicle had vanished from view, she still stood there, gazing pointlessly after it, tracking its progress in her mind. It would – barring accidents – have reached the post road at the edge of the estate before she turned away. And the estate was very large.
When she moved at last, her old governess and closest friend, Emily Naismith, who had been waiting in supportive silence beside her, took her arm and drew her inside the house. ‘Let’s have some tea,’ the older woman said with an effort at cheerfulness. ‘You must be chilled, love – I know I am.’
‘I’m sorry, Em,’ Viola said dully. ‘You should not have waited with me in so sharp a wind. You know I don’t feel the cold.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Miss Naismith sturdily. ‘Of course I waited.’ And then, after a moment’s silence: ‘They’ll be fine. You know they will.’
The footmen sprang to open the doors for the two women, closing them behind them as they passed inside. Viola allowed Emily to draw her through the marble atrium and into the library, where a cheerful fire had dispersed any early autumn chill. Perhaps it wasn’t really needed yet, but it was a comforting sight, or should be. There was a large, slightly battered sofa beside the fire, and the two women subsided into it. The big house seemed very quiet suddenly, the crackling of the flames and the shifting of the logs in the grate the only sound. How could a building that was still full of busy people seem so empty, just because two small boys had left it? They were noisy, of course, and always seemed to be in several places at once, sliding down bannisters, jumping on furniture, but it was more than that.
When the Duchess said nothing, staring into the flames in a brown study, Emily persisted in her futile attempts at consolation. ‘You cannot doubt that William will take the best possible care of them,’ she said softly, flushing a little.
‘Of course I do not doubt it. You know I don’t.’
The occupants of the coach had been Mr William Muncaster, the local magistrate, his twelve-year-old son, Sam, and Sam’s fast friends, Viola’s boys. These were two small persons with grand titles: His Grace the Duke of Winterflood, usually known as Ned, and the Honourable Lord Robert Armstrong, Robin, the Duke’s younger brother by a mere twenty minutes. The boys would all be studying together at one of England’s most distinguished boarding schools, and Mr Muncaster had most kindly agreed to take the twins with him when he delivered his own son to that institution. Viola had some while ago been made to understand, the message given by Mr Muncaster with a gentle concern that had made her eyes smart, that ladies – mothers – did not generally take their sons to school, and it would not be particularly helpful to the lads in question if their doting mama, even if she was a widowed duchess, broke with custom and did so.
Mr Muncaster was a good neighbour and a good friend, as well as being Emily’s betrothed, and the Duchess had not the least fear that he would allow her boys to come to any harm while he was with them. But that did not mean that she could regard their prolonged absence with complaisance, nor cease worrying about their safety. She had never been separated from them before in all their almost eleven years. And they were all she had, as a widow of three years’ standing. Their father, Edward, had been nigh on thirty years her senior, and had died as the result of a sudden heart attack – some congenital weakness, the doctors had said, which in hindsight the Duke had perhaps long suspected but kept secret from everyone – when his sons had been rising eight years old and she had only been six and twenty.
