"Yes," she said. "Very happy."

Oh, dear G.o.d, what was the matter with them? How could they allow one deranged man to do this to them?

He was standing before her chair, extending a hand for hers. There was the wedding night to celebrate. Why was she feeling depressed? She set her hand in his, got to her feet, and allowed him to draw her arm through his. She did not even know, she thought, where her bedchamber was, where her trunks were that had been brought here at some time during the day, where she would find what she needed, where she would undress, where . . .

He led her upstairs past wall sconces filled with candles, all cheerfully alight, and along a wide corridor before stopping outside a closed door.

"You are tired, my dear," he said again, his fingers curving about her hand on his other arm and raising it to his lips. "I will leave you to have a good night's rest and will look forward to seeing you at breakfast in the morning. Though you must not feel obliged to get up early if you wish to sleep on. Good night."

What?

But Dora had no time either to show or to express her shock. He opened the door to reveal a dressing room lit by candlelight and a maid curtsying and smiling at her. She recognized the fine linen nightgown she had chosen for her wedding night set out over a chair. She stepped inside, and the door closed behind her.

"I am Maisie, Your Grace," the maid said. "I will be your dresser for the time being until you choose someone else, unless you decide to keep me, which I would like of all things."

Dora smiled.

Smiles. Perfection. What had happened in a few minutes. It was how she would remember her wedding day as long as she lived, Dora thought as she gave herself up to the unfamiliar ministrations of her new maid.

Oh, and the absence of a wedding night.

You are tired, my dear.

My dear.

She did not want to be his dear. She wanted to be Dora.

9.

George was standing at the window of his bedchamber, his knuckles braced on the sill, his shoulders hunched. He was gazing out into darkness, though he was scarcely aware that there was nothing to see. He was dressed for bed, his dark blue dressing gown belted over his nightshirt. Behind him the covers of the large canopied bed had been turned down for the night-on both sides.

He could hardly have made more of a mess of the day if he had tried. The appearance of Eastham inside the church and his dramatic p.r.o.nouncement there had been totally unexpected, it was true, but life was full of the unexpected. In forty-eight years he ought to have learned better how to handle it. Actually, he believed that at the time he had behaved with the proper restraint and dignity, as had the bishop. He had even had the presence of mind to ask his bride if she wished to postpone the wedding.

It was the rest of the day that had been the disaster. And he was the one most to blame, he feared. Everyone else had taken their cue from him.

What he ought to have done was kiss his bride in the carriage, as he had planned to do, while everyone looked on. Then he ought to have spoken to her of what had happened with the promise that they would talk more fully later, when they were alone and not distracted by the din of the hardware they were dragging along. Then he ought to have raised the issue quite openly with his guests at the start of the wedding breakfast, explained again that there was absolutely no truth to the charges that the Earl of Eastham had made against him both this morning and immediately after Miriam's death, and invited everyone to put the unfortunate incident behind them if they could and celebrate his wedding day with him and his new d.u.c.h.ess. Later, after most of the guests had left and only close family and friends remained, he should have raised the issue again and talked it out with them. And then, after returning home with his bride, he should have sat down with her and discussed the matter privately with her, talked the whole thing over with her yet again.

That was what he ought to have done. He had nothing to hide, after all, and nothing of which to be ashamed.

He had done none of those things.

Instead, after that brief apology to his bride in the church, he had said nothing at all to anyone, but had behaved just as though that shocking episode had not happened. And apart from Percy's quick word with him before the carriage moved off, everyone had followed his lead. All had been smiling, festive merriment for the rest of the day-the perfect wedding celebration with the perfectly happy couple.

Not a cloud in their sky. Only endless bliss ahead of them.

It had been one giant pretense. All day there had been a loud silence on the very topic that had surely been foremost in everyone's thoughts. Eastham would be delighted if he could know that he had ruined George's wedding day even though he had failed to put a stop to the proceedings.

George changed position to brace his hands on the side frames of the window just above the level of his head. A light was bobbing slowly and rhythmically about the square-the night watchman's lantern. His presence was unnecessary, however. Nothing disturbed the peace. Not out there, anyway.

And then there had been the greatest disaster of all. He had let his bride go to bed alone-on her wedding night. He had done it because she had looked tired and he had thought to do her a kindness.

Balderdash!

Why the devil had he done it, then? Because he could not quite bring himself to face her in the intimacy of the marriage bed? Because he feared that a part of her might believe what she had heard? Because retreating into his own inner world was second nature to him and he had needed to be alone?

On his wedding night?

He curled his hands into fists and pounded them lightly against the window frame. Was he going to allow Eastham to do this to him on top of everything else?

He felt suddenly and painfully like his seventeen-year-old self again, gauche and totally out of control of his own life and destiny. How could he have sent his bride to bed alone on their wedding night? He fairly squirmed with shame and embarra.s.sment.

It was well after midnight, too late to go to her now. But was it? How likely was it that she was sleeping? Not very, at a guess. How could she be? He had so very much wanted their wedding day to be the happiest day of both their lives. Instead it had turned into perhaps the worst nightmare of a day either of them had ever lived through. Good G.o.d, she had been abandoned by her bridegroom on her wedding night-her forty-eight-year-old, oh-so-mature bridegroom, who had allowed himself to be completely overset by the spite of a man who had blighted a large portion of his adult life.

He did not take a candle with him into his dressing room or into hers beyond it. He did not want the light to wake her if by chance she was asleep. Or perhaps he did not want to illumine his own face if she was not. He tapped softly on the door of the d.u.c.h.ess's bedchamber-in which he had not intended that the d.u.c.h.ess ever sleep except perhaps for afternoon naps-and turned the k.n.o.b quietly before opening the door and stepping inside.

The bed was untouched. He could see that much in the dim light from the window across which the curtains had not been drawn. For a moment he thought the room was empty. But there was a large, winged armchair beside the window, and he could see that she was curled up within it, her legs drawn up onto the seat and turned sideways, her arms hugging each other by the elbows beneath her bosom, her head against the chair back. She was very still and very quiet. Too still and too quiet to be sleeping.

He crossed the room to stand in front of her chair. She was indeed not sleeping. Her eyes were open and looking up at him.

"I am so sorry, my dear," he said. The same lame words he had used earlier in the day.

"Don't call me that." Her voice was quiet and toneless.

He felt a lurching of alarm.

"I have a name," she told him.

"Dora," he said softly. He had planned to call her that in the carriage before he kissed her outside the church, had deliberately not asked before their wedding day if he might have the privilege of using it sooner. He had looked forward to hearing her answer him with his own name. There was an intimacy in names, and he had wanted that intimacy within moments of their leaving the church as man and wife. Where the devil had "my dear" come from?

"I could not have mismanaged the day more than I have," he said.

"It was not your fault," she said, still in that dull monotone.

"Ah, but much of it was," he said. "A ghastly few minutes might have remained just that-a few minutes-if I had only spoken openly about the incident afterward to our guests, discussed it with our families and friends later, and explained fully to you when we were alone."

"You did not know it was going to happen," she said. "You had no chance to prepare an appropriate response. You behaved with dignity nevertheless."

He stooped down on his haunches before her. He would have taken her hands if she had made them available, but she continued to hug her elbows. She had not moved at all. She was deeply withdrawn into herself. If she could have disappeared into the chair, he believed she would have done so.

"Dora," he said, "there is no grain of truth in anything he said. I swear to you there is not."

"I did not even for a moment believe there was," she said. "No one did."

Perhaps not. But at the time there had been those who chose to believe, including a small clique of his neighbors at home who had indulged the deplorable human urge to convert a simple tragedy into a lurid sensation. Being accused of a heinous crime when one had no incontrovertible proof of one's innocence was surely one of the worst feelings in the world. One wanted to go about proclaiming one's innocence, but, knowing that to be futile, one retreated instead into the deepest, darkest core of oneself-and more or less stayed there forever after. That was what he had done, anyway, even though he was convinced that all the more sensible elements of society had long ago absolved him of all suspicion of guilt.

He reached out a hand and cupped it about her cheek. She neither flinched nor moved-even as far as to lean into his hand. He set one knee on the floor, the better to balance himself.

"I wanted our wedding day to be perfect for you," he said.

She said nothing. But what was there to say?

"Instead," he said, "it must have been one of worst days of your life."

He heard her draw breath as if to speak, but she said nothing to deny it.

"It is past midnight," he said. "A new day. Allow me to start afresh, if you will."

Did her head tilt a fraction closer to his hand?

"Let me take you to bed," he said. "To our marital bed in our room. Not here. This is to be your private bedchamber for daytime use. At least, I hope that is all it will be used for. Come to bed with me, Dora. Let me make love to you."

He could hear her inhaling very slowly. "I am your wife," she said, still in the same toneless voice.

He got abruptly to his feet and turned to the window. He braced his hands against the outer frames. The night watchman was long gone. There was nothing but darkness out there.

"Please don't," he said. "Don't make this a matter of duty. You owe me nothing out of duty. Nothing. I married you because I wanted a companion and a lover. I thought you wanted the same. If I was mistaken, or if you have changed your mind, then . . . so be it." There was a short silence. "Was I mistaken? Have you changed your mind?"

"Neither," she said.

"Forgive me for today," he said, "and particularly for this evening. I cannot explain even to myself why I said good night to you outside your dressing room. It was certainly not because I did not want you. Please believe that."

He felt a hand on his back then. He had not heard her getting to her feet.

"I am sorry too, Your Grace," she said. "We are both old enough to know better than to expect perfection of any day. How foolish we both were to expect it of our wedding day. And yet it was perfect except for those few minutes, which were neither your fault nor mine."

He swung around. "Your Grace?" He laughed. "Oh, no, please, Dora."

"George," she said. His name sounded a little prim on her tongue and altogether alluring.

He set one arm about her shoulders and the other about her waist and drew her against him. She was warm and shapely and womanly and clad in a predictably modest and unadorned nightgown of the finest linen. She smelled of that light floral fragrance he had noticed before. She set her hands against his shoulders and lifted her face. He could not see it clearly. Although she faced the window, she was in the shadow of his body.

He kissed her lips for the first time. She held them stiff and still, and it occurred to him with something of a shock that it was possible she had never been kissed before. Even if she had, it had probably been a long time ago. He drew his head a little way back from hers and turned them slightly so that the faint light of the outdoors was on her face.

"Smile for me," he murmured.

Perhaps it was surprise that caused her to do so.

He kissed her again, and her lips, still curved upward and slightly parted in a smile, were soft and yielding. He softened his own over them, moved them, touched his tongue to the seam of hers, pressed slightly between. She made a soft sound of alarm, but he had cupped her elbows with his hands and moved her arms so that they came over his shoulders and about his neck. He drew her against his body again and deepened the kiss without doing anything else that might shock her further.

He was surprised by the sensation of pure pleasure he felt from their almost chaste embrace. The pleasure had nothing to do with s.e.xual desire, though there was that too. It had more to do with the fact that she was his woman, his wife, his companion, his own for the rest of their lives as long as they both lived. Some of the joy of the morning-of yesterday morning-returned.

Her head moved back from his then and he could see her face clearly enough to detect some anxiety there. "You do realize," she asked him, "that I am a virgin?"

He would be willing to wager that her cheeks were aflame.

He wanted to smile, even laugh, for she spoke in the voice she must use to the more careless of her music pupils, but it would have been the wrong thing to do. "I do realize it," he said gravely. "By the morning it will no longer be so. Come to bed, Dora."

Goodness, she must have been fathoms deep in sleep, Dora thought as she began to float upward to the surface. She was enveloped in warmth and comfort. The mattress had never felt so soft or the pillow so warm yet firm beneath her neck. She had never felt so totally relaxed or so filled to the brim with a sense of well-being. A clock was ticking steadily somewhere close by. She breathed in a pleasant but unfamiliar fragrance. As well as the rhythmic ticking of the clock, there was another sound, that of the deep, even breathing of someone asleep beside her. And-the only discordant detail-there was a soreness between her thighs and up inside her. Yet not really discordant after all, for paradoxically the soreness was the most deliciously comforting feeling of all and the origin of her utter contentment.

She had reached the very surface of sleep and broke through into consciousness, remembering. She was in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room. But the bed was . . . what had he called it? It was their marital bed. And this was their room, whenever they were in London, anyway. That other room where he had come for her was hers only for daytime use. But she had no wish to go back there.

He was lying beside her now, his arm beneath her head, and he was sleeping. He had made love to her before they slept. It had been a very one-sided activity, since she had been hopelessly ignorant and inadequate. But no, no, no, no, she would not think that. He had a.s.sured her she had not been. He had told her she had been wonderful and, oh, goodness, she had believed him because his voice had been low against her ear, and one of his hands had been stroking her hair, and his weight had been heavy on her, and he had still been . . . inside her. He had made her feel wonderful even though she had not had a clue of an idea what to do to make their lovemaking mutual. He had told her she did not need to do anything, only to be and to enjoy if she possibly could. He had apologized for the pain he knew he was causing her and had promised it would be better next time and better still after that.

He had not really understood, though she had tried to explain, that there was some pain that was not really pain at all even though it hurt. Well, it was no wonder he had not understood if she had described it that way. Had she really been so incoherent? But she could not put it properly into words even inside her own head. She had shed some tears because he was hurting her, but the tears had been less about the pain than about the sheer wonder of what was happening. How could one know all one's adult life the facts of what happened between a man and a woman and imagine what it would feel like, yet really have no idea how it would really be?

She had convinced herself over and over down the years that the absence of it from her life did not make her less happy or less fulfilled as a person or a woman. And of course she had been right. She would not have lived out her days as half a woman if he had never come to offer her marriage. But, oh, the delight of last night's discovery and the . . . the sheer joy of knowing that it would happen again and again in the future.

She was a married lady. In every sense-the wedding yesterday, the consummation last night.

It was not just the act itself that had been wonderful, though. He had been wonderful. He had been considerate and respectful of her awkward inexperience. He had extinguished the candles before joining her in bed, and he had not completely removed her nightgown but had only raised it to her waist and then lowered it after they were finished. He had removed his own nightshirt, but only after the room was in darkness. He was still naked beside her now. Along the side of her right arm she could feel the bareness of his chest, warm and lightly dusted with hair. He had also been patient. Ignorant as she was, she had sensed the restraint he had imposed upon himself as he prepared her with warm, skilled hands and a gentle, alluring mouth. And he had held the bulk of his weight above her while it was happening. He had eased his way slowly inside her. She was not sure he had thus saved her from any of the pain, but he had perhaps prevented some of the shock of the unfamiliar stretching and penetration there. Even after he had entered her fully, he had proceeded cautiously, she had sensed, until he was finished and she felt a liquid gush of heat deep inside.

Ah, yes, it had been both painful and shocking. It had also been-oh, by far-the most glorious experience of her life.

Despite herself her thoughts went back to their wedding, the day she had expected to be the happiest of her life. It had not been, of course, but upsetting as it had been for her, it must have been very much worse for him. That man-the Earl of Eastham-had been his brother-in-law and yet had accused him of murder. Why? And why so publicly and on just such an occasion? It had been somehow horribly reminiscent of another occasion when someone-her father-had spoken out with a public denunciation and changed her life forever. Was it pure spite on the earl's part because his sister's widower was marrying again?

She could not ask. Even though he had said last night that he ought to have talked openly about the incident with his guests and friends during the day and discussed it fully with her when they were alone, he had not then proceeded to do just that. He had brought her to bed instead.

She was suddenly aware that she could no longer hear his breathing beside her. She turned her head to find herself being regarded with sleepy, smiling eyes.

"Dora," he murmured.

"George."

He chuckled after a few moments. "Well, that was a profound conversation."

"Yes," she agreed. She was only half joking. A name-a first name-was a powerful thing. Her heart had yearned toward him last night when he had called her by name for the first time. Calling him by his name seemed very personal and intimate when he was . . . the Duke of Stanbrook, whom she had thought of as some sort of remote, unattainable figure of n.o.bility for well over a year. Yet now she was his wife. She was in bed with him. They had made love. He was George.

"I like waking to see you there." He closed his eyes and inhaled. "My bed has been very empty, Dora."

Since his first wife's death? But she did not want to be thinking that particular thought. And it did not matter. That was then. This was now.

"So has mine," she told him. Oh, she had not realized how very empty it had been.

He opened his eyes again. "Do you like waking up to me?"

"Yes."

"This conversation grows more profound by the moment," he said, and they smiled at each other and then laughed. It felt very good to laugh with him. She very much hoped there would be light and laughter in their marriage as well as the companionship and intimacy he had spoken of when he offered for her.