Page 40 of A Virgin for the Rakish Duke (Romancing a Rake #3)

Four weeks later

“ I ’ll say this for the Duke—he only teared up a little.”

Jane’s voice carried just enough for it to be heard over the silverware. “Which is more than I can say for my Philip, who wept all through the vows like a maiden aunt.”

“I did not,” said Philip, looking long-suffering. “There was a draft. It affected my sinuses.”

Harriet smiled down at her plate from next to her husband, her fingers curled lightly around her spoon. The syllabub was untouched.

The wedding breakfast was small, and better for it.

Not more than a few dozen guests were seated in the long drawing room at Penhaligon Manor, sunlight slanting over white linens and pink-ribboned place cards.

Wildflowers had been tied into the backs of the chairs.

The scent of roses came in through the open windows, heavy and sweet.

It had been hours since the wedding, and already it felt like a dream.

The cathedral in Marylebone had filled to the arches with family, society friends, and the few political allies Ralph could not bring himself to exclude, including Henri de Rouvroy, who had insisted on remaining in England until after the wedding ceremony.

There had been bells, and solemn words, and the press of Jeremy’s hand against hers when the ring slipped into place.

It had been glorious. And somehow also a blur.

Now they were here. Back at Penhaligon. Married.

And she could not breathe.

Her grandma leaned toward her then. “Has no one brought you champagne yet, my darling? That seems criminal.”

Harriet turned, eyes softening. “I’ve had plenty, Grandmother.”

“Mm,” said Agnes, unconvinced. She patted Harriet’s arm, then nodded toward the head of the table. “Ralph’s about to say something, I believe. Do pretend to listen this time.”

Harriet smiled coyly, then flicked her gaze to her brother. He had risen, glass in hand, and was giving the room a look that could only be described as dutifully appraising. A hush settled like a collective breath drawn in.

“My sister,” Ralph began, “has a habit of deciding things without warning.”

Soft laughter rippled around the table.

“She decided to chase pigs through a paddock at the age of six. Decided to read Pamela aloud to our great-aunt at nine. Decided, at twelve, that if she couldn’t be a countess or a chemist, she’d rather die.

” He paused, face wry. “Today, she decided to become a duchess. I suspect this one might last longer.”

There was laughter again, genuine this time.

Harriet raised her brows at Jeremy, who was seated beside her in the seat of honour. His expression was unreadable except for the twitch at one corner of his mouth.

Ralph went on, his tone growing more serious. “I won’t pretend I was… immediately enthusiastic when she made her choice. But I could never deny her happiness.” His gaze shifted briefly to Jeremy, then back to Harriet. “And she seems happier than she ever was with me alone.”

Harriet felt something small and unspoken twist inside her.

“She has chosen a man who sees her clearly,” he continued. “And that’s all I ever wanted for her.”

He lifted his glass. “To the Duchess of Penhaligon.”

A soft chorus echoed him. “The Duchess.”

Harriet felt her throat tighten. It wasn’t the title—not truly. It was the feeling of being seen, just as Ralph said. Of being known and still wanted. Of looking to her side and finding Jeremy already watching her. Always watching her.

Neither had spoken a word to the other since the ceremony.

He had, however, leaned close enough to refill her teacup and brush her sleeve with his knuckles.

He had passed the butter with a murmured, “Your Grace,” pitched just low enough that it could not be ignored.

And just now—without looking at her—he had slid something across the table beneath his palm and left it there, folded once.

Harriet let her fingers drift sideways until they found the edge.

The napkin was linen, pressed and still faintly warm from his touch. She opened it a little.

East Wing. Now.

That was all.

She folded the napkin again with a small smile, slower than necessary, and set it down beside her plate.

Her hand went to the back of her neck, fingertips smoothing the edge of a curl there.

“I think I need a moment,” she said lightly, to no one in particular.

“This corset was designed by a villain.”

Jeremy stood immediately. He reached for his coat in one smooth movement. “I shall escort you, dear.”

There was a pause at the table—nothing more than a slight lull in the rhythm of forks and conversation—but Jane’s eyes flicked up from her plate.

The smallest smile tugged at her mouth before she returned to her conversation with an expression of deep innocence.

Ralph didn’t even glance up, deep in debate with the vicar about hunting law.

Perfect.

The pair left through the tall French doors that opened into the corridor, sunlight brushing their shoulders as they passed the threshold. Once out of sight, Harriet let out a breath.

She had spent the last three weeks waiting.

Smiling through fittings, rehearsals, meetings with florists and clergymen and stationers, a hundred tiny decisions that all seemed absurd next to the only one that had ever mattered.

She’d taken walks with her grandmother and hosted teas and pretended, convincingly, that her skin wasn’t vibrating with anticipation every time Jeremy so much as entered the room.

After his declaration of love for her, everything had changed. She had retreated to becoming a nervous schoolgirl caught in a fancy.

She had kissed him twice since the proposal. Never long enough.

He reached for her now.

She didn’t resist. There wasn’t a thought of it. One moment they were moving forward, and the next his hand was cupping her jaw and his mouth was on hers, open, hot, and claiming.

Harriet moaned, low and startled, and pressed up into him like she meant to devour him alive.

“Designed by a villain, was it?” he murmured into her lips, kissing lower with every word. “I have thought about unfastening this gown every damn day since I saw it.”

“You shouldn’t have sketched it so well,” she said, breathless, as his hands traced the slope of her hips through the silk. “You made it very easy to copy.”

He stilled for half a second, then huffed a dark laugh against her skin, equal parts pleased and ruined. “I knew you had stolen my sketch of it. You little thief.”

“You left it out.”

“You knew exactly what you were doing.”

“Of course I did.”

He pressed her harder against the panelled wall, and she gasped—then laughed again, wicked and breathless.

There was a faint clatter as her elbow had knocked into a delicate pedestal stand, which juddered under the weight of an ornamental urn. Jeremy reached out blindly and righted it without breaking the kiss.

The man had excellent reflexes.

“Careful,” she whispered. “You’ll break something.”

“I intend to.”

Harriet felt a frisson of pleasure vibrate through her body at those words.

He kissed her again before she could respond—kissed her until her knees nearly gave out—and then took her hand and walked with her quickly, determinedly, down the corridor. His grip was firm and unrelenting, but not cruel. He didn’t rush her. He simply wouldn’t stop.

Her heel slipped slightly on the polished floor. He caught her by the waist and guided her around a narrow corner.

They passed the drawing room doors without slowing. Harriet barely glimpsed the tall windows, the pale blue curtains, the chaise near the fire. Jeremy pulled her through and into the next room, the one adjoining it, and shut the door behind them with a sharp, satisfying click.

The air in this space was cooler. Dimmer. It smelled faintly of charcoal and clean linen.

A single north-facing window let in a blade of light across the wooden floorboards.

In its path stood a tall easel, bare. Nearby, a low stool, familiar in shape and repaired with care.

A canvas leaned against the wall, blank.

On a small table beside it rested a shallow bowl filled with painting paraphernalia and a folded cloth.

There was nothing else in the room.

She turned in a slow circle, taking it in.

“You… you did this?” she asked in awe.

“Well, Atkins helped with the windows,” he chuckled. “But yes. It is yours now. Ours.”

“It is… perfect.”

Jeremy reached for the first button at her back.

She turned before he could undo it.

“Lock the door first.”

His smile was crooked. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

“I’ve seen how you kiss. Do you really want us to be caught?”

“Would it be the worst thing? We are married now, after all,” he chuckled again.

Harriet rolled her eyes, and he acquiesced with a bow, moving to lock the door.

When he turned back, Harriet was already unfastening the top pearl at her throat.

“God help me,” he muttered, and crossed the room in three long strides. She met him halfway.

This time, when he kissed her, she didn’t hold anything back. There was no time for patience. She wanted him ruined. She wanted herself ruined. For his hands to shake when he touched a paintbrush next, for every breath he took to taste like her skin. She had waited long enough.

Their mouths clashed again—open, insistent.

Harriet yanked his coat from his shoulders, her fingers already seeking the buttons of his waistcoat.

He caught the back of her knee and lifted it, pinning her against him as her skirts bunched and tangled between them.

She moaned into his mouth and scraped her teeth along his lower lip, and he groaned, deep and dark, barely human.

“You are sure?” he whispered hoarsely.

She pulled back just far enough to look him in the eye. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted, her bodice already slipping from her shoulders, wanton and wanting.

“Your Grace,” she rasped, “either get me out of this dress or I shall tear it off myself.”

That was answer enough.