The Ugly Duchess

  And she feared him.

  He’d been confident about his ability to overcome her rage. Now he felt as if the universe had given him a leveler. Daisy knew him. How could she possibly feel threatened by him?

  His brain supplied the answer. Because he had hurt her, if only emotionally. Surely she didn’t think he could ever hurt her physically. He felt undone at the thought and clenched his fists to stop his fingers from trembling.

  Of course other people feared him: he was a pirate. He was big and tattooed and kept his head shaven—though his hair was now growing back. But it never crossed his mind that Daisy could fear him.

  She was the only one who had always looked past the surface and loved him for himself. She had been the only person in his life who thought he was more than a pretty voice and a handsome face. Even his mother liked to parade him around the drawing room, cajole him to sing for her guests, and call him her “treasure.”

  He strode into the library, dimly registering that it looked different. How in the hell could he have let Daisy go? Where had his brain been the last seven years?

  The days had been long, and filled with sometimes violent adventure, but somehow the years had been short.

  He stood at the window, his heart pounding in a strange way that made him feel a bit sick. It couldn’t be too late.

  He could win her back.

  He briefly imagined himself kneeling at her feet and just as quickly dismissed the idea. The one thing he would never do was beg. As a child, he had begged for affection, although his parents never seemed to notice. He had sung his heart out for his mother, hoping that she would do more than pat his cheek and smile at him.

  A sound deep in his chest surprised him and he bared his teeth at his reflection in the window glass. He was being a sentimental ass. He could win Daisy back without prostrating himself. Women didn’t want fools or weaklings. If she didn’t respect him, she’d never take him back.

  There was nothing to respect about a man who only had to look at his wife to find his entire body enflamed, the one thought in his mind a longing to lick every drop of water off her body. He’d like to carry her to bed, and . . .

  And beg her to love him the way she once had.

  His stomach lurched. He had a moment of clarity that sliced the world into two parts: one in which Daisy smiled at him, and the other in which she walked away, just as he had walked away from her.

  The second was hell. And the first . . .

  Her frightened expression came back to him like a blow.

  True, he looked like a savage and he sounded like a dockworker. But he didn’t have to act like either. In fact, he suddenly realized, what he should do is act like that damned worm Trevelyan. Daisy had always adored Trevelyan’s sardonic manner, although it masked (if you asked James, though Daisy never did), a blistering lack of confidence. Perhaps even self-hatred.

  A hard bark of laughter didn’t make it from his throat. He was the one lacking self-confidence now. Still, as long as she never discovered his Achilles’ heel—her—he could seduce her with carefully clever conversation. Then, once he managed to get her to bed, surely he could ignite the old affection she had for him.

  But first she had to see him as the sort of man she wanted, not as an idiot begging for attention, let alone sexual attention. And not as a terrifying pirate, either. He had to be polished. Amused. Refined.

  All the things he was not, but he shrugged that off. She could find out later what a primitive beast he really was underneath. He could play cultured for a while.

  Probably.

  He thought through his plan, elaborating it, considering contingencies, testing each phase in his mind as carefully as he had always done when they caught sight of a pirate sail. Thanks to the countless times Griffin and he found themselves in the company of royalty, he was in possession of all the clothing that Daisy would like.

  She had certainly remade herself; she was like a polished silver bowl, every inch of her conveying classic elegance. And control. In fact, she bore an unnerving resemblance to a sensual general, if only women were allowed in His Majesty’s army.

  He preferred her without clothing. His mind skipped back to the image of her standing in her bath, and his body instantly hardened. Runnels of water had slid down her thighs. He wanted to fall at her feet and cherish those thighs . . . and everything between them.

  But even more than that, he simply wanted to be with her, to be the first to share her brilliant ideas and fierce opinions. In all his travels, he never met anyone, not even Griffin, whom he enjoyed talking to as much as he enjoyed talking to Daisy. Now that he’d seen her again, it was as if all those years on board ship had passed in a dream: reality was here. He wanted to grow old with her, or not grow old at all.

  Bloody hell.

  He was in serious trouble.

  Twenty-five

  The moment Theo closed the door, she pivoted, expecting James to open it and step through. He had blundered straight into the bathing chamber, after all. Why had she never divided that spacious room into two, one for each of the bedchambers? She’d had half a mind to do so for years. Instead, she’d installed the newest system of pumping water and a gorgeous ceramic bathtub made on their own estate.

  She heard the sound of his feet retreating through his room and down the corridor. And told herself that she was glad. Perhaps he had forgotten that the bathing room was shared. From now on, he would respect her privacy.

  She took her time dressing, not allowing herself to picture buxom island girls with curves her body would never achieve.

  She had meant to remain at home that night to honor James’s memory. But now there was no person to grieve, and, therefore, no reason to stay home. More importantly, she simply could not face the idea that she and James would have to sit opposite each other at supper. She desperately wanted to flee.

  She sent Amélie to inform Maydrop that she would attend the theater, then she donned an evening dress made of a heavy, supple olive green silk that gleamed under candlelight. It fell from the bodice, but rather than belling out, the silk was cut on the bias and hugged every curve of her body.

  The bodice was gathered under her breasts and trimmed with dark copper lace that glimmered with shiny black beads and widened into short sleeves. Her hair was pulled straight back from her forehead without even a wisp floating at her ears, and she waved away the ruby necklace Amélie offered. She wanted no distraction from her face.

  She did, however, slide a sparkling ruby onto her right hand, a present she had given to herself when Ryburn Weavers made its first thousand guineas in profit.

  How better to remember that milestone than to wear a sizable percentage of it on one’s finger?

  Finally, Amélie drew out a small brush and skillfully applied a few strategic dabs of face paint. The last thing Theo wanted was to try to look conventionally feminine, but she’d discovered that a thin line of kohl made her eyes look deep and mysterious.

  After a final look in her glass, she felt her confidence settle back in place: confidence that had been hard won, as she coerced the estate back into solvency, as she conquered the French court, as she won the respect of the English ton.

  Her husband’s disregard for her—even expressed so openly, before the entire assembled body of peers—could not diminish her achievements.

  Her butler waited at the newel post. “His Grace is in the library,” he announced, concern written all over his face.

  “Thank you,” Theo replied. “I trust that you will reassure the household, Maydrop. The duke’s return is unexpected, to say the least, but I am sure that he will make no changes in domestic arrangements.”

  He nodded. “His Grace did not bring a valet, so I have taken it upon myself to request the registry office send three suitable candidates tomorrow morning. I have put the duke’s guest in—”

  “Guest!” Theo interjected. She felt the blood draining from her face. Surely, no matter how savage he’d become, James had not brought
back a woman from the West Indies?

  “Sir Griffin Barry,” Maydrop said quickly. “I gather that His Grace and Sir Griffin were partners in the last few years. I have placed Sir Griffin in the rose bedchamber.”

  “Excellent,” Theo said, rather faintly.

  She had an unnerving wish to run out the front door as fast as she could. Her husband had not only returned, but he had also brought with him his companion in crime—and hadn’t Mr. Badger said that Barry had a more invidious reputation than did James himself?

  The constables would be pounding on their door by luncheon tomorrow. She hadn’t missed her mother’s support so keenly in years. Even the old duke would have been a welcome presence at her shoulder.

  “Your Grace, I believe that you plan to attend the—”

  But Theo raised her hand, and Maydrop’s words broke off. “Later, if you please.” She must confront James before she turned tail and ran.

  She walked into the library before she could change her mind.

  She had redecorated the room after James’s father died. There was nothing left to remind her of the moment of humiliation that broke her marriage, when the old duke had met her eyes as she knelt before his son, performing a service that made her shudder to even consider now.

  At that time the room had been all dark wood and crimson curtains, the only artwork portraits of long-deceased hunting dogs. These days, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves alternated with white paneling with periwinkle blue insets, each painted with a different set of fantastic images inspired by the discoveries at Pompeii.

  The curtains, needless to say, were woven on Ryburn looms. They too were striped blue and white, with small flowers running down the blue.

  Any remaining china shepherdesses that had escaped the former duke’s fury had long since been banished to the attics; instead, one’s eyes landed on Ashbrook ceramics, whose Greek and Roman themes provided a counterpoint to the grotesques painted on the wall.

  Theo knew exactly what she was doing when she inspected the room rather than look at the man who occupied it: she was so seized by nerves that she was reassuring herself by cataloguing her own successes.

  James was seated at the desk she used for her accounts, apparently writing a letter. He had tossed aside his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

  Theo took a deep breath. “Good evening, James,” she said, walking forward.

  As she spoke, he looked up from the sheet of foolscap before him and rose. Apparently he hadn’t entirely abandoned the conduct of an English gentleman.

  “Daisy,” he said. He moved from behind the desk and kissed the hand she held out.

  As he straightened she studied him closely, taking her time about it. “My name is Theo,” she told him in a voice that brooked no misunderstanding. “Goodness, you’ve changed, James. No wonder I didn’t recognize you this morning. May I offer you a glass of sherry?” She walked over to the cluster of decanters and removed the top of one.

  “I rarely drink,” James said at her shoulder. She jumped and dropped the glass stopper. His hand shot out and he caught it.

  “May I?” he asked, taking the decanter from her hand and pouring her a glass of sherry. “I see you have three kinds of brandy, which suggests that you are as unlike other ladies in your taste for spirits as you are in other respects.”

  Theo wondered briefly if he was trying to discomfit her by obliquely alluding to her lack of English prettiness, but she shrugged off the thought, taking a heady sip of sherry and letting it warm her throat. “Your cousin Cecil is very fond of cognac and I keep it for him,” she said, walking over to a couch that replaced the rococo sofa she had thrown away.

  She sat down and watched as the stranger who called himself her husband poured himself a glass of port, then came to join her. As he approached, she tipped her head back the better to see his full height. “You’ve grown astonishly large.”

  “Yes.” He sat beside her and she edged away from the heat of his thigh. “In my early twenties I suddenly sprouted a few more inches. My only explanation is the sea air.”

  Suddenly the sofa felt very small indeed. Theo took a comforting sip of wine, then leaned toward him and peered at his cheek. “I gather that is a poppy under your eye?”

  He nodded.

  Though she would die rather than admit it, the tattoo had a kind of primitive appeal. “Does Sir Griffin have the same emblem carved on his face?” Really, she was handling this tremendously well. How many women had the opportunity to speak to a pirate, let alone have two under their roof? And surely she must be the only English gentlewoman to find herself married to a man of this profession. It would all work out, she told herself. James would leave England—surely he would rather leave than be hanged—and her life would return to normal.

  “He does,” James replied, as casually as if she were inquiring about a cravat. Not that he was wearing a cravat. His neck emerged from his shirt as bare and brown as lads working in the fields.

  “Are you concerned that your adopted profession might lead to some unpleasantness?” she asked.

  “Of what nature?”

  “Given the unorthodox, and I daresay, illegal nature of your activities, I would think that the constables will call on us. Or officers from the Royal Navy. Whoever it is who deals with pirates.”

  He settled back in the corner of the sofa and grinned at her over his wineglass. “What should I be worried about?”

  “Dancing at the end of a rope? To the best of my knowledge, piracy is punishable by death.” She took another sip of sherry.

  “Yes,” James said, sounding perfectly unconcerned. “I suppose that is the case. Under normal circumstances.”

  “And you are not worried?”

  “Not in the least. How were the last seven years for you, Theo?”

  “Wearying,” she said, choosing candor over his evasive answers. “Life was quite difficult after you left the country. But you’ll be happy to learn that Ryburn Weavers and Ashbrook Ceramics are now thriving concerns. Once I had both of them on an even keel, I moved to Paris, from whence I returned last year. I had thought—” She caught herself.

  “You had thought to hand the estate over to Cecil,” James said. “I cannot blame you for wanting to see the back of it. Shamefully, I planned never to return partly for that reason. In fact, it was one of the reasons I changed my name. I thought to ensure that no one ever put together the Earl and the Earl of Islay.”

  “How lucky for all of us that you changed your mind,” she said, not trying very hard to sound enthusiastic.

  He looked at her silently for a long moment. “Are you angry because I didn’t inform you of my return before interrupting the proceedings at Lords? My ship docked late at night, and I thought not to wake the household. I think of Lords as being men only, and it did not occur to me to look for women in the audience during the less-than-thrilling process of proving my identity.”

  “A wife is easily forgotten,” she agreed.

  He hesitated. Then: “I stopped thinking of you as my spouse some years ago, as I’m sure you did of me.”

  His words took Theo’s breath away. Somehow she hadn’t stopped thinking of James as her husband, though Lord knows, she wished she had.

  Temper was rising up her spine again, but she hadn’t reached the age of twenty-four for nothing. “I see,” she said quietly. “If you are wondering whether I betrayed you in the years of your absence, I did not.”

  There was a flash of emotion deep in his eyes, but it was gone so quickly that she wasn’t sure she saw it.

  “My answer to that question would be the opposite,” he said, as casually as if he were discussing the weather. “Two days of marriage failed to impress itself on me. I am fairly certain that most men would understand my lapse.”

  “Not everyone gives the same weight to marital vows,” she replied.

  “Our marriage was over, to quote your own words.” His voice did not rise, but it took on a severe, rather chilling undertone. “You
threw me out of this house and told me not to come back. I hardly see your command as honoring our mutual vow to stay together as long as we both shall live.”

  “Am I to understand that my anger at being tricked into the marriage, the better to disguise the embezzlement of my dowry, became your excuse for committing adultery?”

  The atmosphere in the library was so charged that she felt as if a dry spark might ignite the very air. Interestingly enough, James remained in obvious control of his temper. He truly had grown up.

  “We have a great deal of hostility between us,” he said, finally. “I had not thought that you would still hold a grudge. Frankly, our marriage feels like a different lifetime to me. I can hardly remember our last conversation—other than your insistence that our marriage was over—but in case I did not offer my apologies at the time, I am happy to do so now.”

  Theo felt a sudden wave of longing, not for the hard-faced man in front of her, but for the young man whose eyes fell when she screamed at him, who had loved her.

  James apparently took her silence as encouragement. “I am truly sorry for having acceded to my father’s request and married you under false pretenses. In years after, I realized that while the marriage may well have taken place anyway, our closeness undoubtedly made the sting of my betrayal more keen.”

  “Be that as it may, we scarcely know each other now,” she said.

  “The boy in me will always love you,” he said, disarming her with a smile. “The man I am doesn’t know you yet.” And now there was a look in his eyes that she recognized, that resonated deep within her.

  Instantly Theo quashed the feeling. She’d jump off a church steeple before she’d bed a man who cared so little for her that he had waited seven years to inform her whether he was alive. That was one lesson she had taken from her experience as an “ugly duchess”: if she didn’t value herself, no one would.

  Except perhaps that boy whom James no longer resembled.