Page 8 of Courting the Duchess (Spy Society #1)

S terling spent the following week developing a routine for his new, old life. It took some time, but he quickly remembered the unbridled joy of being one’s own master without a schedule.

He awoke on his own early each morning, enjoyed a light breakfast with the blackest coffee possible (after the cook finally managed to procure proper coffee beans and practice the best brewing methods), and read in the library until he heard the patter of his wife’s slippers on the stairs. Without fail, he’d step away from his reading to greet her.

It seemed the proper thing for a husband to do.

If he were honest with himself, however, the action was more to satisfy his curiosity about this woman than a social nicety. It needled him more and more frequently that he’d married her years earlier and yet did not fully know her.

He had already learned one thing since his return: Alaina had taken the last eight years to become gloriously uncensored. If she ever attempted to hide her moods, then she did a hideous job of it. He also learned that he could tell how the rest of the day would go within those first ten seconds of seeing her each morning.

Some days he’d catch her smiling to herself, humming a jaunty tune as she bounced down the last few steps. Sterling enjoyed those days and took extreme pleasure in the softness of her graceful features…even if her smile would disappear the very moment she saw him. The wall she hid behind would be erected once more; however, at least she’d mumble a curt reply to his “good morning” on those days.

There were times he could tell she hadn’t slept well; pale bruises dared to mar the delicate skin beneath her eyes. He wondered if his presence in her life once more had concerned her greatly enough to cause sleeplessness and a pang of guilt prodded at the edge of his conscience. Regardless of what Alaina believed, he took no pleasure in her discomfort.

Other days, she’d stomp down the stairs and, without preamble, berate him for moving something in the library the prior evening or for making the mistake of requesting one of his servants perform some task. Those mornings—even if she didn’t bite his head off like a bloodthirsty mantis—he swore the temperature in the room plummeted well below freezing.

To call her moods toward him mercurial would be unfair to her because, for the most part, once she picked one, she stuck to a mood for at least that day. She hated him on bad days and tolerated him on good ones. She glared at him as if trying to decide which poison would best do him in, or she was an ice queen who kept herself at a safe distance from his sullying presence. He might have been more concerned that she’d actually attempt to do him harm were she a woman with less forethought and reason, but she’d always been intelligent, his wife. She’d realize it did not behoove her to do away with him, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t try to make his existence uncomfortable.

Despite his resolve, the impression that he seemed to be the only one on the receiving end of Alaina’s frigidity and scorn began to erode him like acid from the inside out.

Sterling had witnessed firsthand several times how the flip in her personality occurred when she interacted with someone else after being in his presence. As cool as she’d acted toward him, the newcomer would be greeted with the sweetest of smiles on those full lips of hers and the most pleasant tone in her voice.

It grated upon his every frayed nerve.

What in God’s name did he have to do to earn even an ounce of that sweetness?

He’d buy her half of London if he thought it would make a difference, but his wife had made it abundantly clear that she wanted nothing to do with him…and, for the most part, he obliged…no matter how little he liked it. They kept to their separate endeavors and areas of the massive home, encountering one another with relative infrequency.

It was hardly the marriage Sterling had imagined when he’d requested Alaina’s hand nearly a decade prior.

Nothing about this life was what he’d once imagined for them.

Lately, the only extended amount of time she spent in his presence was at supper. Together, they would eat in near complete silence, despite Sterling’s determined inquiries. Most often, regardless of his inquest’s nature, his efforts were met with cool civility. She could be downright frosty. They’d continue on until Sterling’s efforts died a slow death, strangled by Alaina’s unwillingness to cooperate.

Their lack of pleasant conversation, however, was not the only thing bothering him.

Despite the persistent ache in his loins plaguing him since well before he’d set foot upon English soil, Sterling hadn’t returned to Alaina’s chambers since that first night…a fact that she seemed more than pleased to accept.

This, perhaps, irked him most of all.

It wasn’t as if he was conceited (above and beyond the expected self-assurance a man possessed when he was born into more than passable attractiveness on top of a dukedom), but he would be lying if he claimed he was used to a woman’s rebuff. Females, young and old, had always been drawn to him. Whether his looks or his wealth or his title or his charm were the draw, he’d never lacked companionship.

He was pursued by women he didn’t want, didn’t desire, didn’t set his blood aflame, yet the only woman he longed for couldn’t stand to be in the same room as he. He’d have gladly given all those hollow, unwanted attentions and advances away a thousand times over if Alaina would only look at him like she used to. It would certainly be a cruel twist of fate that he’d be married to the one woman who wasn’t attracted to him.

The real shame was that he wanted her , even with her decidedly frigid treatment of him.

And he was damned if he knew why.

Perhaps some twisted part of him was drawn to the challenge.

Or the torture.

Alaina was a beautiful woman; she always had been. But maturity had granted her grace, and experience had lent her tongue a biting wit for which—though its daggers were frequently aimed at him—he couldn’t help but afford her begrudging admiration.

That, or he was simply losing all his mental faculties and required institutionalization.

A very small, very quiet part of him refused to be cowed. She remembered how he took his tea. He had to believe some minute part of her still cared, whether it wanted to or not. It had been years since she’d prepared him a cup of tea, but she’d performed the task with flawless efficiency, and she’d done it to perfection. Despite her reticence to accept him back into her life, the seemingly innocuous act gave him a ray of hope warm and bright enough to bolster his resolve. He’d been so taken aback by the gesture that he hadn’t been able to react at first. He recognized it was a silly thing—tea was tea—but it had told him in no uncertain terms that she hadn’t forgotten him…not completely.

On one of the “bad days,” Sterling found Alaina reclining on a chaise longue in a warm patch of sun in the library. With bated breath, he watched her in the unguarded seconds before she noticed his arrival.

She caught the manicured nail of her thumb between her pearly teeth as she buried her nose in a cloth-covered manuscript. The golden light lent her a shimmering halo and kissed the gentle curve of her cheek in such a way that it made him ache. A heat more palpable than the very sunlight streaming into the room blossomed from deep in his chest, sinking lower and lower until he was half-hard so quickly it was painful.

He wanted to pluck the papers from her hands and toss them aside. To press her back until she was prone and pliant beneath him. To bathe in her scent. To fit his thigh between hers as he melded the curves and hollows of their bodies and tasted every inch of her silken flesh, every curve, every crevice. To finally, irrevocably claim her as his.

Though he was loath to break the spell, Sterling cleared his throat and Alaina stiffened. A new pain prodded his innards, dousing his ardor with a healthy dose of reality. He was about as close to his wife allowing him any liberties as a fish was to sprouting wings and flying.

Alaina did not look up from her reading, but he could tell from the tilt of her head that she was listening. “I’m off to my solicitor’s office,” he announced. She raised her hand in haughty dismissal and hunkered down more deeply into the chaise. He suppressed a sigh as he backed out of the room and retrieved his hat from Maxwell.

In truth, his meeting wasn’t for another three hours. He just desperately needed some space to breathe and think…and defrost his bollocks.

After a bit of wandering, regaining his bearings along the streets of London, savoring the familiar—if sometimes unpleasant—smells and sights of home, Sterling found himself on St. James’s Street at the foot of the steps leading White’s. As one of the most coveted memberships for men of the ton , the prestigious gentlemen’s club was one of his former haunts. Morton association dated back to the club’s formation more than a century earlier. His membership had been a foregone conclusion as soon as he’d come of age. Staring up at the familiar Greek columns propping up the building’s stately facade, he wondered if that membership remained valid after an eight-year hiatus.

He climbed the steps and was somewhat amused when he had only to mention his name to the doorman before he was admitted with a buzz of barely contained excitement. The Morton name still created a stir, it seemed. In no time, his hat and gloves were whisked away by silent, efficient hands, and he was escorted into the hallowed hall of masculinity.

Engulfed in the warm, musky scent of cheroot and oiled leather, parchment and spirits, Sterling felt more at ease than he had since he had returned to England. No furious wives were lurking around the corner, driving him mad with their barbed tongues and sinfully gorgeous bodies.

He selected an upholstered armchair in the corner and took his seat. Its position afforded him both a clear view of the rest of the room and its inhabitants, as well as an interesting vista outside the tall windows swathed in heavy velvet draperies. He settled in and awaited the drink he’d requested, but his senses remained keenly aware of the interest his arrival had stirred. This was his first real outing since his return to England, so it was unsurprising that his presence garnered such a reaction.

Sterling slowly scanned the room through the light haze of smoke billowing from a portly lord flipping through a newspaper. He marked each man present, where he stood, with whom he spoke, and how often his eyes flicked in Sterling’s direction. He recognized several familiar faces, though they were older or softened by years of overindulgence. Curiosity flared in their eyes; several men bent their heads together as if discussing whether Sterling was, in fact, the Duke of Morton returned…and whether or not he could be approached without offense.

He’d known even before he set foot outside of Morton House that his presence would attract some interest—in fact, he was surprised that word hadn’t gotten out before then—but it was a far cry from the greeting in his own home. It was refreshing to be around people who, even if they weren’t his closest friends, didn’t try to commit his murder with their eyes… It was a welcome difference from the climate at home, and that realization was at once sobering and depressing.

His warmed brandy was delivered by a silent servant, and it was as if a bell had been rung at the starting gates. Several lords took that as their invitation to approach Sterling and renew his acquaintance.

He spent the next hour being greeted by a variety of White’s members. Men who had known his father and wished Sterling well; former classmates at university were eager to reminisce and be counted once more amongst his comrades. Others simply wanted to be able to say they’d conversed with the notorious Duke of Morton.

He received several verbal invitations to balls and gatherings from husbands who claimed their wives would never forgive them if they didn’t present the opportunity to the newly returned duke. He shared drinks and answered questions about his time on the Continent; artfully dodging the inquiries he wished to avoid answering and, instead, responding with a practiced tepid smile and falling back on his rank and his right to dismiss anyone without a word of explanation. This especially came in handy when a couple of comments edged toward rude with references to stories of some of his more debauched activities. Those were the ones that earned the full force of his icy glare and most withering rebuff.

When those topics were exhausted, conversation naturally shifted toward more serious subjects. He was asked by those who were more politically minded when he might finally assume his seat in the House of Lords. It wasn’t a lie when he reassured them that he looked forward to educating himself on the issues coming up for vote. He hadn’t lied to Alaina earlier; he knew it was long past time he made a difference at home. His influence was more than substantial, and it had cost him no small amount of guilt that it was yet another thing he’d abandoned for the “debauched life of excess” everyone believed he’d led on the Continent. It was one more deep-rooted regret he doubted he’d ever reconcile. All he could do was move forward. Turn a new leaf. Whatever bloody aphorisms one used when he was trying to make himself feel better about turning his back on the life he’d once had.

Sterling signaled for another drink and it appeared with all the speed and efficiency for which White’s was known. He deftly steered the conversation to places he wished to go; he presented the proper ducal facade and, with each man who eventually returned to his day or excused himself from their group, Sterling knew all of London would be abuzz with news of his return well before he set foot outside of those walls.

In all, he was able to forget himself for a while and settle back into the role to which he’d been born. While not free of artifice, it was a different sort than that which he’d become so adept at practicing over the years. To him, this was child’s play.

Another brandy and several conversations later, Sterling enjoyed a brief period of peace before he was approached by a tall, immaculately turned-out man with a pronounced limp and a silver-tipped cane. He appeared to be around Sterling’s age, perhaps a year or two older. Sterling scoured his keen memory.

The cane.

The shockingly green eyes and golden hair.

“Sommerfeld,” Sterling greeted the man and received a warm grin in response.

“Morton. I’d been unsure if you’d remember me—we were a few years apart at university, after all.”

“How could I forget?” Sterling gestured to the vacant seat beside him, and the viscount nodded in thanks. He sat with only a little awkwardness before propping his cane against the small cherrywood table between them. The last time Sterling had seen the man, he hadn’t required the cane’s assistance. He wasn’t privy to the exact nature of the injury, but he’d heard of the near-death incident even while on the Continent. Anytime something happened to a handsome, wealthy, well-connected man, news traveled remarkably fast. Though the viscount’s physical limitations were clear, he seemed otherwise healthy. “You managed to create quite the reputation.”

Sommerfeld waved away the comment on his rakehell youth. “I thought I would take the opportunity to welcome you home. Are you here to stay, then? Will we be seeing more of you in Town?”

“I suppose so,” Sterling replied as he settled more deeply into the comfortable chair. A carriage rumbled by outside in the street and he watched as the gray and green conveyance disappeared from view. “It was long past time to return home,” he added somewhat wistfully as Alaina’s face materialized in a dreamy haze against the glass. She was a specter, forever taunting him with her nearness, yet always out of his reach…determined to hold his sins against him like a sword above his neck.

“Then I suspect we shall be seeing a great deal of one another.” Sterling could hear the wry grin in the viscount’s voice and he turned to face him. “Our wives are rather close,” Sommerfeld added by way of explanation.

“Of course.” Sterling nodded to mask his discomfort over the fact that he knew so little about Alaina when it came to who she had become. She was close friends with a future countess who had married into a family known for their more liberal political leanings…and he knew nothing about it. He’d have to remedy his lack of knowledge about his wife’s companions, if only to ensure her wellbeing. He’d failed in many of his obligations, but this was one thing he hoped he might correct. Alaina had gone so long without someone to directly look after her, and he fully intended on doing so.

It was also disheartening how the list of things he didn’t know about Alaina was steadily growing far larger than the ones he did. Yet another of his shortcomings.

He set those thoughts aside for the time being and simply allowed himself to be in the moment—something he hadn’t done in what felt like a lifetime.

He and Sommerfeld wound up passing another hour in companionable conversation. They took a light lunch while Sterling enjoyed another brandy, and the viscount sipped overly-sweetened tea. Though he and Sommerfeld had never been great friends prior to his trip to the Continent, Sterling found the man to be immensely likable and easy to talk to. This—coupled with the several drinks in him—allowed Sterling to drop his guard more than he had in recent memory. Despite common belief, he had avoided strong spirits as much as possible these past eight years. Lowered inhibitions were not something to be taken lightly.

While Sterling recounted a couple of amusing anecdotes from his travels—one of which involved a particularly aggressive donkey and a German prince—Sommerfeld returned the favor by catching Sterling up on the latest news in Town. There was some interesting legislature being prepared for voting in the House of Lords; a few old disputes between ancient families continued to boil. Though Englishmen were not known for being overly demonstrative, the viscount did explain a little of how he’d met his wife. The viscountess was immediately endeared to Sterling when her husband warned him off of ever playing cards with her because she couldn’t be beaten.

At one point, Sterling accidentally knocked his foot into Sommerfeld’s cane and sent it clattering to the ground. He quickly apologized and moved to retrieve it, recognizing the distinctive snarling sterling silver lion with glowing garnet eyes from university. The young viscount had used it in a prop during a prank on one of the crueler professors and quickly adopted it as a signature accessory. Now, it was clear the cane was much more utilitarian.

Sterling handed it back to Sommerfeld and, though he said nothing, he must have read the curiosity in Sterling’s eyes.

What had happened to bring down a man so young and full of life?

The viscount averted his gaze and propped the cane against the table once more. “I am sure you’ve received any number of invitations since your return,” Sommerfeld said, smoothly transitioning the conversation. “Forgive me for adding one more to your plate, but I’m certain my wife would enjoy having you and Lady Morton join us for supper one evening soon. She is only just reentering society after confinement,” he added the last for clarification.

“Confinement? Well, then congratulations are in order. My apologies for the delay; I hadn’t realized.” Sterling held out his hand to Sommerfeld and the other man took it gratefully.

“Thank you,” Sommerfeld replied, beaming with undeniable pride. His entire countenance glowed with it and his grin was remarkably wide. “My wife and the girls are all doing well. I fear a house full of women is my penance for the sins of my youth,” he chuckled and sat back.

“Girls? You’ve twins then?”

Sommerfeld nodded. “Both are already as fiery as their mother, and all three of them know exactly the ways in which to try my patience and obtain everything they want.”

Sterling emitted a small smile at the picture his companion painted. It was clear to even those far less observant than he that Sommerfeld adored his wife and wasn’t the least bit disappointed that she’d given him daughters instead of an heir. To say Sterling found the situation enviable was an understatement.

How pleasant it must be to have a wife who could stand your presence.

“It can’t be that miserable, can it?” Sommerfeld asked with an exaggerated grimace. Sterling was appalled to realize he’d grumbled aloud, but the viscount didn’t appear to be taken aback by his informal bluntness. “See here,” Sommerfeld began as he sat forward with his elbows on his knees; “If I may speak candidly—and do know that I genuinely like her quite a bit and that I say this with the utmost respect—Lady Morton is a handful. Of course, I’ve only ever seen her in public settings and as a guest in her home, but I can only imagine what she must put you through in private. A more determined, outspoken woman I’ve never met, though she is also undeniably, unapologetically herself.”

Sterling’s mouth twisted into a wry grin. Far from being offended, he actually appreciated the assessment of his wife and found it aligned with what he’d come to know of her these past several days. There was something oddly reassuring about it…like he’d finally learned a fact about this new Alaina.

“I cannot claim my memory to be impeccable, though I will say she has always been a true friend to my wife even if she may not be the same girl I remember from her debut. In fact, I am unaware of any woman who would dare call her a false or fickle friend. She is kind to a fault, if meddlesome; she is a woman driven by her moral compass.” Sommerfeld inclined his head. “And I’m sure you are aware just how rare that is in our circles. Women are more likely to throw a dagger as soon as your back is turned as they are to smile sweetly to your face.”

“I do respect your estimation, Sommerfeld,” Sterling said honestly as he polished off the last of his drink and set aside the cut crystal glass. “Tell me, what is your opinion of this Reading Society? You mentioned your wife was a member and I would like an honest reply. Everyone is either trying to ingratiate themselves to me or they beg me to intervene to make their own lives more tolerable.” It was instantly clear that Sterling didn’t need to elaborate further. Sommerfeld shrugged and sat back to rub a knuckle into the muscle of his thigh; the movement appeared to be more a subconscious action than anything.

“I admit, it is nice to see Lady Sommerfeld reading things other than her medical treatises and journals. She never had a Season in Town and knew precious few people at the time of our marriage, so the Society has afforded her a way to meet and make friends and connections within the ton . I know some question the ideas they discuss and the materials they read, but I gather quite a few of those people are simply jealous they’ve not received an invitation to attend, or they are husbands irked by their wives discovering their own passions.” Sommerfeld chuckled. “For her part, my wife doesn’t seem much worse for the wear, even if she does return home with the occasional radical idea. In fact—” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper so it wouldn’t carry further than their corner of the room. “I quite appreciate it whenever they read the naughtier books because she will come home feeling particularly adventurous.”

Sommerfeld winked.

Sterling choked and wished he had a drink to blame it upon.

Naughty books?

Where in God’s name had Alaina found those…and why had he not yet reaped the benefits?

Who was he fooling?

He knew exactly why he hadn’t.

His wife loathed him. Couldn’t stand the sight of him. Likely fantasized about the myriad ways she might rid herself of him.

The last thing on her mind would be ways she might implement things from her illicit stories…even if he couldn’t stop pondering all the ways he’d like to give her pleasure.

Sterling signaled for another drink and decided he’d have to delay his meeting with his solicitor another day. This conversation was far too riveting, and he’d already imbibed two drinks too many. He couldn’t be trusted to perform business of any worth.

He, like most men, preferred to believe he could hold his liquor well…but he’d admitted to himself long ago that drinking was not his game of choice—especially when he needed to keep his head about him. It was precisely why he’d avoided anything more than a few nips here or there for appearances. However, there, in White’s with a man whom he’d very much like to eventually call one of the first true friends he’d ever had, Sterling felt at ease. He could step away from the angst within his home, he could breathe a little easier now that he was in a familiar place, but he would never be able to fully release the habit of scanning the room and anticipating the motives of everyone within. It was nice to pretend, though, and to allow himself to be a little less cautious with his actions and his words.

If only he could do the same with Alaina.

“Ah,” Sommerfeld began thoughtfully, reading volumes in Sterling’s silence. “Your homecoming has not been what you expected, then?” It was more a statement than a question.

Sterling laughed sardonically, his words ringing with harsh candor, “I received exactly the reception I expected…I simply did not anticipate it being this protracted.” He hadn’t believed Alaina would welcome him with open arms and drag him into her bed, but he’d hoped by this point that he at least would have earned a modicum of warmth. Perhaps consummated their union, if he was lucky. But he was quickly coming to realize that he’d vastly underestimated the female ability to hold a grudge.

“If I may?” Sommerfeld held up his palms but didn’t wait for a reply. “If marriage to my own spitfire has taught me one thing, it’s that a little groveling can go a long way.”

“I’m a duke. Dukes grovel to no one and for nothing,” he replied flatly.

“Now that —” Sommerfeld pointed a finger in Sterling’s direction. “—is precisely the attitude that will keep your bed cold. To the world, we are wealthy, powerful, titled men. At home, in private, our wives rule.” Sterling cocked a skeptical brow. “Oh, we like to think we are in control,” Sommerfeld added quickly; “but we aren’t. They hold our hearts and our bollocks in their pretty little beaded reticules. We are the ones at their mercy, whether we wish to admit it or not. When we do wrong, no simple apology will suffice.”

“You and I suffer from a similar affliction,” Sommerfeld added gravely, but paused as Sterling’s next drink was delivered. The employee retreated silently to a faraway corner to await his next task and the viscount continued. “We, both of us, are possessed by women who know their worth and they’ll be damned before they allow anyone—even us—to treat them as anything less.”

Sterling took a sip of his fresh brandy and pondered Sommerfeld’s words while the sweet heat slid down his throat and curled through his veins. He decided he was simultaneously appreciative of the other man’s bluntness and irked that everyone seemed to know more about his wife and his marriage than he did.

“It sounds to me as if a little wooing is in order,” Sommerfeld added with a sympathetic smile.

“Wooing?” Sterling scoffed. “We’re already married and well past that.”

“Wrong, again,” Sommerfeld said, cutting him off, then leveled another finger at him. “For a man married as long as you have been, you still have a great deal to learn.”

Sterling’s mouth adopted a displeased twist. He sat back and took another drink as the wheels in his mind began to turn.

Woo his wife? Could that really be the solution to his ills?

Normally he wouldn’t place this much stock in another’s opinion, but he liked Sommerfeld. He respected his candor and there was undeniable logic there when one considered how everything else Sterling had tried thus far had all but exploded in his face.

Perhaps the viscount was correct and another tactic was in order…