Page 9 of My Demanding Duke (Forbidden Love #2)

CHAPTER EIGHT

ANNA WOKE AT the crack of dawn, refreshed after an unexpectedly deep sleep. The fire in the grate was low, but the room retained its heat. She slipped from her warm bed to the window, pulling back the damask curtain to watch the sunrise over St James’ Square.

Outside, she saw the first stirrings of life: a lamplighter extinguishing the last flickering street lamps, a sleepy footman in livery hauling a coal scuttle inside, and a maid chattering to a costermonger as he unloaded baskets of fruit and vegetables from his cart.

Anna pressed her fingers to the cold windowpane, absently watching the scene unfold. The predictability of others’ routines—the slow rhythm of the square at first light—was oddly comforting. Even more so now that she had woken to a life that no longer felt like her own. Would she, too, find comfort in new habits? Would she ever feel at home in this grand house, in this marriage she had not chosen?

A soft draught curled around her ankles, pulling her from her thoughts. With a small shiver, Anna drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders and turned back toward the fire, grabbing a book that Josie had thought to pack into her portmanteau.

She had intended to lose herself in the familiar pages of Fanny Burney’s Evelina, in the trials and triumphs of a young woman navigating society. But the words blurred as she stared at them, her mind circling back to the night before.

To Falconbridge. To their kiss. To the thrilling hardness she had felt when he pressed her against him.

And yet, he had not taken her to bed.

Why?

Heat crept up her neck as she closed the book with a snap, frustrated with herself for ruminating over a man she claimed to despise. She should be grateful for his restraint, should she not? A proper gentleman would give her time to adjust to her new role as a wife. And yet, the memory of his lips against hers, of the restrained power in his touch, made her ache with a longing she barely understood.

Though, she understood well enough, that if Falconbridge had decided to claim his marital rights last night, that she would have surrendered happily to his demands. This knowledge filled her with a sense of shame; what was it about the man that made her forget herself?

A gentle knock at the door interrupted her brooding thoughts. Anna smoothed her nightgown, before calling, "Come in."

The door opened to reveal Josie, bearing a tray of tea and a warm smile.

"Good morning, Your Grace," she said brightly, setting the tray down before moving to stir the dying embers in the hearth. "Oh, I’m glad you’re awake so I’ve someone to talk with. There’s that many servants here, you wouldn’t believe. I’d imagine that if His Grace was so inclined, he’d never have to lift a hand to scratch his own backside.”

“I can’t imagine there’d be many volunteers for that position,” Anna snorted, pulled from her tumultuous thoughts by Josie’s familiar pattering.

“The world is full of strange people,” Josie answered with a mischievous smile. “I’m sure there’d be one. And, mark my words, it would probably be the underbutler, Mr Reeves. As you well know, I’m not one to gossip, but a stranger man I have never met…”

Josie told Anna the gossip she had gleaned at breakfast as she bustled about the bedchamber with practiced efficiency. She laid out one of the day dresses Madame Delacroix had sent over days before, along with stays, a petticoat, and a chemise, before helping Anna change.

“Pretty as a picture for your first full day as a duchess,” Josie declared after she had finished pinning Anna’s hair into a simple knot.

“I expect I’ll have much to do,” Anna ventured, nervously. “Meet with the staff, inspect the house—I’ll have to write to my aunts to tell them the news of the wedding.”

“No hurry on that front, dearie,” Josie assured her. “It might take weeks for a missive to reach Aberdeen; a delay of a day or two won’t make a difference. If you want my advice—not that I’d deign to offer advice to a duchess—the first thing you need to do is to eat a hearty breakfast.”

“I concur,” a deep voice called, startling both Anna and Josie.

She turned to find her husband leaning against the door frame, just as he had last night. Mercifully, this morning, he was fully dressed, his shirt properly buttoned, a cravat at his throat.

“Most people knock, before they enter a room,” Anna snipped, earning herself a shocked pinch from Josie.

“I am not most people,” Falconbridge shrugged, before allowing himself a self-aware grin at his high-handedness. “I pray you will forgive my unannounced interruption. I have been a confirmed bachelor for so long that I have acquired bad habits. You will have to be strict with me, if you wish to bring me to heel.”

Anna resisted rolling her eyes at his silver tongue. Josie however, had turned pink and looked as though she might swoon. Traitor, Anna thought, mutinously.

“You are not a dog for me to train, your Grace,” Anna answered the duke, with a tartness to cancel his sweet.

“Nor am I a stranger to you,” his reply was swift and firm. “I will not tell you again, you will address me as Hugh when we are alone.”

His eyes met hers, holding her gaze in a challenge. Anna was no clairvoyant, but she could see him thinking of their embrace last night. He was correct; they were not strangers.

"Shall we go down to breakfast?" Falconbridge broke the silence first, extending his arm for her to take.

Anna hesitated for just a moment before placing her hand on his arm. Josie gave her an encouraging nod, and they made their way from the bedroom to the hallway, then down the grand staircase.

Up close, Anna could see that the duke—though immaculately presented—looked tired, with dark circles shadowing the skin beneath his eyes. Perhaps he had spent a sleepless night plagued by his conscience, she thought, pleased by the idea.

The dining room was elegantly appointed, like the rest of the house. Morning sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating the polished wooden floors. A sideboard laden with various dishes stood against one wall, bearing enough food to feed Wellington’s army. Servants stood discreetly by the wall, ready to serve their new duchess.

“Is breakfast always such a grand affair?” Anna questioned as she took a seat at the table.

“Not usually,” the duke admitted, as he sat down opposite her, “I believe the staff are showing off a bit, for your first morning.”

“I shall have to tell them to rein in the extravagance,” she replied, “I don’t usually take breakfast.”

“Well, today you will,” Falconbridge was firm.

Anna quashed a smart retort as a footman arrived with a cup of steaming hot chocolate for her and a Arabic coffee for the duke. This was followed by plates of warm crumpets with jam, a dish of eggs and meats, and a platter of cheese and fruit.

Mindful of the temperamental chef in the kitchen, Anna sampled a little from each course, loudly praising each dish.

"You've hardly touched your food," Falconbridge observed, undeceived by her theatrics. "You need to eat, Anna."

“As I said earlier,” she replied, defiantly, “I do not usually take breakfast. I’m starting to feel like a pig being fattened for winter. Do you intend to take me to the slaughter house later, is that your grand plan?”

Falconbridge had the good grace to look slightly sheepish at her words.

“Forgive me,” he conceded, “I have been told that I can sometimes be a little overbearing.”

The understatement of the century, she thought with amusement. Though she was touched by his humility—it almost made him endearing.

"Nonetheless," he said continued, said humility vanishing in an instant. "You’ll need your strength. I've planned an outing for today. Shopping for new dresses and baubles, then, if you're amenable, I thought we might attend the theatre later. There's a comedy on at the Theatre Royal."

He laid out the plans casually, as though they were a normal married couple making normal plans for their day. Anna wondered for a moment what it would be like not to fight against him, to just allow him take control.

“I do not think most husbands accompany their wives shopping,” she said, managing to sound neutral to his suggestion. An improvement on her prior hostility.

“I am not most husbands,” Falconbridge shrugged, unconcerned that people might find it strange to see a duke in a dress shop.

That was what it was to be so powerful, Anna realised; he could do as he pleased without worry of censure.

“Perhaps I have plans of my own for the day,” she ventured, unable to resist teasing him, for he looked so self-assured.

He quirked a brow, his expression that of a man torn between amusement and annoyance.

“Do you?” he queried.

“I do not,” she answered, her tone light, “Though the next time you make plans for my day, you might consult me on it first.”

“Duly noted, my dear,” his boyish smile causing a lurch of longing in the pit of Anna’s stomach.

Hating Falconbridge would be far easier if he wasn’t so devilishly handsome, she thought as she speared a sausage with her fork. It was going to be a long day.

Anna’s second experience of Madame Delacroix’s was very different from her first. Weeks ago, she had been an unknown country mouse, with a limited budget and was treated as such. Now that she was a duchess, the famed modiste herself attended to her, fawning loudly over her figure, her beauty, and her fortune.

Well, she did not quite say the last part aloud, but Anna could guess.

Her adoration increased anytime Falconbridge, towering in the background, suggested a preferred material, colour, or style.

“Oui, your Grace,” she exclaimed, when the duke suggested they try bolder colours, “Your wife is too beautiful to fade away in pastels.”

Falconbridge’s eyes traversed her body, from top to toe, and Anna felt a frisson of desire in her belly. There was something strangely erotic about being watched by him as she stood in front of the mirror, scandalously clad in a thin muslin shift.

His gaze lingered on the curve of her waist, and Anna found herself standing straighter, her breath catching when his eyes met hers in the looking glass. The heat in his stare was almost dangerous, she thought with faint alarm.

She ripped her attention away from him, focusing instead on the task at hand. The sooner she selected her dresses, the sooner she would be safe, bundled back up in her staid walking dress.

Flustered, she said yes to nearly every fashion plate Madame Delacroix showed her. Within an hour, she had ordered almost two dozen gowns, as well as four coats, two riding habits, and a magnificent evening cloak of midnight blue velvet lined with silver fox fur. Falconbridge had completed the order—the cost of which Anna could not even hazard to estimate—by insisting that the modiste create an original design for his new duchess.

“Something that really shows off her beauty,” the duke drawled, his gaze dropping for a split second to Anna’s breasts, “Nothing too low cut though, I do not like to share.”

Anna blushed, both annoyed and thrilled by his possessiveness. Madame Delacroix fell into raptures, promising to dedicate her every waking moment to the duke’s request.

The modiste led Falconbridge away to show him some of her sketches, leaving Anna in privacy. She changed quickly back into her walking dress, glad for its thick material and high neck.

She exited the dressing room to find Flacobridge waiting for her on the shop floor, carrying several paper-wrapped parcels.

“Just a few bits that caught my eye,” he said, as he led the way from the shop out to Bond Street. A footman hurriedly relieved the duke of his burden, leaving Falconbridge free to offer Anna his arm.

“What say you to some jewels?” he queried, “Something with sapphires, to match your eyes.”

Anna resisted rolling said eyes; Falconbridge’s generosity was impressive—even touching—but he could not buy her affection.

“I am feeling a little overwhelmed,” she stated, deciding honesty was the best course of action. “I would like to return home; I don’t think I’d survive another hour of shopping.”

“Then home we shall go,” he replied easily, signalling to the footman to open the carriage door.

Inside the lushly appointed compartment, Falconbridge tucked a blanket around her knees, his expression one of concern. It was quite the feat, Anna thought with amusement, that the man could make her feel like a sensual siren one minute, then a dowager aunt the next.

“Really,” she laughed, as he muttered something about sending for a warming brick, “I’m perfectly fine. I am just unaccustomed to spending so much time shopping. Or spending so much money, for that matter.”

“Money is no concern,” Falconbridge waved her comment away with a gloved hand, “Though I am in agreement that the excursion was becoming tiresome.”

“Oh?” Anna raised a brow.

"I had an epiphany of sorts in the dressing room," he said, his voice low. "I realised I would much rather be removing your garments than watching you try on new ones."

“It would be more economical for your purse,” Anna stuttered, her words earning her one brow raised in amusement.

"Are you volunteering to go naked to save my fortune?" he queried, his expression wolfish. "As I said, money is of no concern, but far be it for me to deny your wishes, my dear. Though I must warn you, society might not be as appreciative of your economising as I would be."

His eyes gleamed with mischief as he leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "Perhaps we might compromise—extravagance in public, and whatever state of undress you prefer in private."

Anna felt heat rise to her cheeks, but found herself unable to look away from his penetrating gaze. What had begun as an attempt to divert from her discomfort with such lavish spending had somehow drawn them into an even more dangerous territory of intimacy.

"You are incorrigible, Your Grace," she managed to whisper, though there was no reproach in her tone.

"Only with you," he countered, pulling her against him, “And did I, or did I not, ask for you to call me by my given name when we are alone? I believe you take some pleasure in vexing me, my dear.”

Anna did not have a chance to protest, for he caught her lips in a searing kiss.

The world outside the carriage melted away, the steady rhythm of the horses’ hooves fading beneath the wild hammering of her heart. His hands framed her face with surprising tenderness, contrasting the ferocity of his lips as he deepened the kiss. A shiver of longing coursed through her, as she pressed her breasts against his broad chest. When at last he pulled back, his eyes burned dangerously with barely restrained desire.

"Say it," he commanded, his voice rough with longing, his finger tracing the outline of her swollen lips.

“You’re incorrigible, Hugh,” she whispered.

He smiled at the sound of his name upon her lips, before once again claiming her mouth as his own.

She would, Anna realised with a pang, say anything he wanted if he could just soothe the aching need he created in her.

Mercifully, the carriage came to a sudden halt, preventing Anna from offering to debase herself in a moving vehicle. She would have been flung across the compartment if it wasn’t for the pair of strong arms that held her.

“We’re home,” the duke observed, with a rueful sigh.

Worried that he might instruct the driver to do another circle of the square, Anna quickly scooched away from him, her hands busy smoothing the fabric of her skirts.

“Thank you for an enjoyable morning,” she parroted, feeling entirely discombobulated.

The duke regarded her with open amusement, one brow arching to acknowledge he saw that her composure was feigned.

“Is that all I get? A polite dismissal after such—” he reached out, catching her gloved hand before she could escape entirely. “—a passionate embrace?”

Anna’s breath hitched, but before she could retort, a footman rapped on the door and swung it open. Cool air rushed in, soothing her heated skin and allowing her a modicum of composure.

“It wasn’t a dismissal, it was a review,” she whispered, feeling bold, “That was most enjoyable, despite the abrupt ending.”

With a mischievous smile to her husband, she slipped her hand free of his and allowed the footman to assist her down.

Hugh quickly followed, taking her arm to escort her inside. He would have followed her up the stairs, she guessed, had she not firmly informed him that she intended to nap.

“I’m sure you have correspondence you must attend to,” she said, refusing to meet his eye.

“Now that sounds like a dismissal,” he observed, sounding both amused and a tad disappointed.

To her surprise, Anna felt a pang of guilt, worried that she had hurt him. She met his gaze, allowing herself, for just that moment, to be vulnerable in front of him.

“It’s just, I really am overwhelmed by it all,” she admitted, her voice at a whisper.

Falconbridge stilled, his eyes thoughtful. For a moment, Anna worried that he would bat her concerns aside, lead her upstairs, and demand his marital rights.

But he did not.

Instead, he nodded silently before offering her a curt bow.

"I am a slave to your happiness," Hugh said softly, as he took her hand and lifted it to his lips. "And I am happy to wait for you."

The slight look of regret in his eyes had Anna guessing that the second part of his statement was a case of definite hyperbole. Still, he brimmed with warmth, concern, and kindness.

“Until this evening, Hugh,” she said, with a nod before turning toward the stairs. She climbed quickly, wishing to be free of him and the conflicting feelings he elicited within. Perhaps she should have allowed him to follow her upstairs to claim her maidenhead, she thought in a panic. It might have been easier to bear his demanding embrace than this unexpected gentle kindness from a man she had promised she would never love.