The skin on the back of his neck began to prickle and he turned toward the doorway of the parlor.
And there she was.
His chest got tight at the sight of her. She looked as lovely as an angel in her pale blue gown. Her curly, light brown hair had been drawn up into an elegant chignon that framed her face with delicate ringlets. Her hazel eyes were direct and knowing as they glanced about the room.
But it wasn’t until their gazes clashed that time itself ceased to exist.
Genevieve had been fearful that the duke might change his mind, or at the very least, be late in order to make her worry he might not appear. So she was grateful to see him standing by the vicar. His russet hair was brushed back from his forehead, and he was dressed impeccably.
She would have imagined herself to be the luckiest woman alive to obtain such a catch—if it wasn’t for the sight of his bloodshot eyes. Her lips pursed in disapproval. Of course, he would ensure that he spent the last night of his single life drinking and carousing about the city. God only knew how many women he had flirted with while she was being lectured on the proper way to behave.
She curled her hands into fists and told herself that she would get nowhere by turning into a shrew the first day of their marriage. She would act as a lady should and tomorrow, she would find out exactly what had transpired. As it was, he looked as though he might not be able to remain upright for the entirety of the vows.
To her surprise, however, he managed to do so, and even his voice rang loud and clear when he promised to love and honor. She feared she would stumble over the part that claimed she must obey, but she was able to manage it without choking.
It was over almost as soon as it began. The vicar closed his Bible and took his leave while she looked down at the solitary gem on her finger. Argyle told her it had been passed down for generations from previous duchesses in the family, and now she was the lucky recipient of the opal. It caught the light of the candles from around the room and shone with a certain brilliance. For an instant, she started to panic, hypnotized by the symbol it represented, but she quickly pushed aside her reservations, and concentrated on visiting with her family instead.
Unfortunately, the duke’s estate was on the opposite side of London from the one she had called home for so many years. At least she would see her family when they all returned for the season. It was only because of her boredom that Genevieve had come to the city earlier than the rest of them. Now, she wondered if she might have been better served staying in the country.
Then again, glancing at her husband across the dining table as he chatted with her father, she knew that life as his wife would always have some sort of adventure.
The question that remained was—would it benefit her?
All too soon, her time came to an end. Her trunks were loaded into the ducal coach, and Argyle held out his hand to her as he assisted her into the carriage. He’d told her earlier that it would take a few hours before they reached his estate, so she had planned to pass the time with the morning paper. She thought she might keep the clipping announcing her engagement.
As they set out, it abruptly struck her that she was Genevieve St. Giles no longer. She was Genevieve Beaumont, Duchess of Argyle. Tears abruptly sprang to her eyes. Not only would she be unable to spend every summer with her parents ever again, believing for years that she would be the spinster of the household, her new named sounded so foreign. Undoubtedly, it would take some time to get used to it.
At least her husband would help with the transition.
She glanced up from the newsprint in her lap and saw that he was involved in a novel. Her lips quirked.
He seemed to have the feeling that he was being watched, because he looked up and said, “What is it?”
“Nothing.” She shrugged. “I just never took you to be a reader.”
He lifted a brow. “Did you imagined that I couldn’t read, perhaps?”
She laughed. “I would like to point out that those are your words and not mine.”
“Indeed.” He gave her an admonishing stare, but the sparkle in his eyes belied any annoyance he might have wished to portray.
Genevieve leaned her head back against the squabs and found that a smile had spread across her face. Mayhap this wouldn’t be such a terrible union, after all.
When Cortland was assured that his genteel wife was asleep, he set aside his book. He would much rather enjoy his lovely bride on the way to his estate, but he wouldn’t shag her in the midst of his coach like some East End doxy. She deserved more than that from him.
Not only that, but his head was still pounding from a lack of sleep and too much Scottish devil. He knew it would be best if he tried to get some rest as well, but he wasn’t sure his unruly cock would allow it. Ever since he’d seen Genevieve in that doorway, dressed in all her wedding finery, he’d been dealing with a rather painful arousal. It had subsided somewhat during the breakfast, but now it was aching as badly as his skull.
He leaned his head back and willed his body to sleep, since he planned to be up until the wee hours of the morning, but as much as he willed the peaceful oblivion to come, it eluded him.
Although he enjoyed reading about the animal kingdom through the eyes of French novelist, Georges Cuvier, he wasn’t sure he could absorb any more anatomy, when he wanted to engage in his own studies with his new duchess.
It made him wonder, for the first time, what some of her likes and dislikes were. What if she despised everything that he enjoyed? Outside of the bedchamber, of course. In that regard, he had no hesitation they would make a perfect fit.
What if he uncovered some tasteless habits that drove him crazy? Even if she wasn’t an unfaithful companion, the way his mother had been toward his father, there were certain aspects that he found quite abhorrent. Perhaps she slurped her tea? Or complained about the cold in the winter? Was she good at watercolors, but hated needlepoint?
He frowned. He didn’t know her favorite color. Nor the sort of flower she liked, which was why he’d sent her a bouquet of everything the flower seller had suggested. He had been speaking of the language of flowers, but it might as well have been Greek. At least Cortland had understood that, but courtship had long since failed him.
He had to find out what she enjoyed, because he wanted to do something nice for her when they arrived at his estate. He definitely wanted her to have a better memory than the writhing parlor scene she’d encountered the first time she’d been there.
