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Behind the Duke’s Door

Lynne Silver

www.spice-books.co.uk

On her wedding day, Lady Elizabeth Fentworthy knows that while Harry Reedburn, Duke of Walthingburn, is marrying her, his kisses are reserved for his lover, Arthur. Their convenient marriage will save Elizabeth from becoming an old maid and give Harry an heir—though their wedding night does not go as planned ….

Harry needs Arthur to become aroused—and Elizabeth feels an unexpected desire seeing the two men together. Is adding Arthur to their marriage bed the key to unleashing the passion they need?

CHAPTER ONE

Ominous rain clouds hovered, but did not dare break over London on Lady Elizabeth Fentworthy’s wedding day. Her mother forbade it. The sky stayed dry and Saint James Church hosted its nattily dressed occupants with its usual venerable standards. After all, it was not every day a firmly on-the-shelf old maid of twenty-two married the catch of the season, the sixth duke of Walthingburn, Harry Reedburn.

Lady Elizabeth stood, knees shaking, in front of the large crowd and looked up at her new husband’s handsome face. He didn’t notice.

He was too busy scanning the room for his own lover, Arthur.

She passed a discreet glance around the room also. Ah, there he was. “Fifth row from the back on the right side,” she whispered under her breath to Harry. As the third son of the earl of Mayhue, poor Arthur could not be seated toward the front of the church. Her mother reserved those seats for the very highest levels in the ton.

Harry responded with an easy grin at her that had the romantics in the audience pressing lacy handkerchiefs to their eyes and sighing about young love. Elizabeth wished for a hankie herself, because she was the sole occupant of the room, save Arthur and her brother, who knew that while Harry’s grins were for her, his kisses were for Arthur.

What had she signed herself on for? When this past February Harry had suggested a marriage between them, she’d agreed with her eyes wide open, but now she stood in church and felt the lie pressing in on her soul. She’d recited her vows in a daze and barely heard Harry do the same. He’d pecked her on the cheek, a fitting dignified ducal kiss, and now he placed her hand on his brocade coat sleeve and she put one foot in front of the other to the exit of the church.

She saw her brother’s gaze on her and sent him a consoling smile he’d see right through. I’m fine. Worry about yourself. He’d no doubt be in Harry’s position in a few years’ time, with a false bride. She stepped past her family and smiled blindly at the rows of well-wishers and gawkers. The vast room was a sea of stone dotted with brightly colored hats and flowers. Cheers and good wishes passed through the pews and bounced off her like coins in a fountain. She felt numb to anything save her own thoughts.

One person’s gaze managed to penetrate her fog; Lady Violet Blackstone sat near the back, malice dripping from her false smile. Elizabeth raised a brow at the overdecorated girl wearing a violet hat and gown of the same shade, her signature look. A fashion affectation unbecoming in a fellow debutante. Giddiness washed through Elizabeth as she realized she’d never again have to sit on the side of a ballroom listening to Violet’s snide and cutting remarks hidden in the guise of witticisms.

It hadn’t always been this way. Two seasons ago, both girls had debuted and supported each other through the endless torture of holding up pillars and potted plants, while waiting for an invitation to waltz. But as the years progressed, Violet became more bitter and hostile. Elizabeth’s marriage to the Elusive Duke must be the icing on the cake, and Violet now saw her as an enemy.

She turned away, but not before Violet’s seat companion tossed her a wink and a snide smile. Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at the young man. Did she know him? Oh, yes, that was Michael Finchley, Harry’s heir. Harry must have seen the wink also, for he hurried his step to block her view of his cousin, and bodily pulled her away from Finchley and “Lady Violent,” as she’d been dubbed for slapping one too many maids,

Harry pulled his bride along till they stumbled out the church doors and into the gray, muggy day. His magnificent, glossy black coach stood waiting steps away, six matched bays stamping and sweating in the unusual spring heat.

“Up you go,” Harry said, launching her into the carriage with all the delicacy of a child throwing a ball.

“Oof,” she gasped as she landed on the plush cushions. Burgundy fabric swathed the seats and walls of the sumptuous carriage. Thick, leaded glass bedecked with ivory curtains allowed plenty of light into the carriage. She slid over to make room as Harry followed her up into the enclosed space, crushing the train of her wedding gown.

“Right, sorry ‘bout that,” he told her.

Trust him to detect a detail like that. She’d once danced an entire set with a suitor who’d caught his sleeve button on the lace of her dress and did not notice till the set ended and he tore her gown in his exit. Luckily, a maid in the ladies’ retiring room had been able to repair the damage. No detail like that would escape Harry’s attention. He prided himself on his first-in-stare appearance; it would take some effort and several hours per day to keep up with her dandyish new husband. No matter; it was worth it. Becoming the duchess of Walthingburn and escaping the snickers and pitying glances were worth any amount of trouble. She promised herself a trip to the best modiste as soon as possible. Harry had given her a chance to escape the stares and whispers of the ton. She’d repay him by molding herself into the perfect duchess.

“Arthur’s going to meet us at the wedding breakfast.”

She smiled and nodded at this bit of superfluous news, and leaned over to pat Harry’s hand. “It was a lovely ceremony.”

“Do you think we accomplished our goal?” Inbred arrogance threaded his voice with just a touch of hesitation.

She nodded. “Everyone seemed convinced. Lady Hesterbridge even unbent enough to offer her felicitations on landing you, the Elusive Duke.”

He grimaced slightly at her reference to his popular nickname circling Society, but squeezed her hand between his. “Have I thanked you today for doing this?”

“No, but you did three times yesterday and once last week.”

He smiled and met her eyes. “As soon as I have an heir, you’ll be free to go find your own Arthur.”

She smiled at his promise to release her from the tight strictures of marital fidelity. Slightly wasted on a virgin, really, but appreciated nonetheless. A frisson of fear at the actual heir-making rattled through her bones. “Harry, how will it work?”

“Just like we discussed. Once you give me an heir, Art and I will vet potential lovers for you.”

She felt a blush crawl from her forehead down to her mostly exposed bosom. Drat this new fashion for low-cut gowns. “I meant how will the heir-making work? I understand from my brother and his proclivities that you won’t be interested in me in your … your bed. So how …?” She trailed off, waving her hand between the two of them, sure the coach would explode into flames from the heat generated from her cheeks.

He looked momentarily disconcerted, and then shrugged. “I haven’t figured out all the details yet.” A smile lit up his face. “I have an idea. Come here.” As he spoke, he reached over to pluck her off the carriage seat and onto his long, lean lap.

Surprise had her reaching and grasping for a handhold. Her hands found his shoulders and dug into the surprisingly warm, taut muscles filling out his coat. Before she could react to the unfamiliar strength and scent of a man holding her, his lips pressed into hers. A shocked gasp escaped her, and then she leaned into him, eager to fully experience her first kiss.

His clove scent invaded her and expensive brandy laced his breath. When his tongue pushed into her mouth, the bold liquor taste grew stronger. She allowed him his liberties—after all, he was her husband. And besides, he seemed to be an excellent kisser. Some of her married friends indiscreetly confided the indignity of kisses their husbands pressed upon their persons. Drooling tongues, sharp teeth. Ick. Elizabeth pulled herself back from these intruding thoughts and refocused on Harry.

Hesitantly, she followed his lead, then grew more bold, daring to wrap her arms around his broad shoulders. She slid her tongue closer to his and they engaged in this most fascinating of dances. Her breasts felt shockingly tight and heavy. When he reached one finger into the bodice of her gown and flicked a pebbled nipple, she pulled back in shock. His expression mirrored the way she felt.

Harry gave her a wry smile as he lifted her off his lap onto the seat next to him. “Damn me. Never felt that before.”

Elizabeth lifted a brow at him, and then giggled when he gestured to her breasts.

“You seem to have a lovely pair, but then I’m no connoisseur, seeing how those are my first and probably last set.”

Gales of laughter erupted out of her despite the embarrassment and residual tinge of arousal coursing through her. “Oh, Harry, you sweetheart. You don’t need to pretend for my sake. I know you love Arthur.”

He smiled at her. “It’s difficult to pretend that,” he said, and shifted his bottom, causing her to notice a distinct bump near the fall of his trousers that had most definitely not been there before. “I was thinking of Arthur, though,” he admitted sheepishly.

She hadn’t thought it possible to flush further, but her body managed splendidly. “I didn’t know you’d react like that.” She wasn’t totally clueless; she did have an older brother and had lived in the countryside for years.

Harry shrugged. “Well, it puts my mind at ease about tonight.”

“Have you never … been with a lady?” It was perhaps a bit forward to ask, but curiosity ranked high on her list of faults. Shouldn’t a certain degree of liberty be granted to questions for her husband?

He shook his head. “No. I’ve always known I prefer men. Arthur tried it once with a woman. He made a concerted effort to be normal before we met.”

“Harry, you are normal,” she said, fascinated by the little glimpse into his world.

‘Well, you’re the only person I’ve met with such a liberal mind-set. The rest of Britain would just as soon tear me to pieces than allow me to live how I please on my estate,” he said with bitterness in his tone.

“You could have, you know,” she pointed out. “Simply put out a false, tragic story about a childhood love dying. Devastated Duke Swears Never to Marry. I can see the society pages now.”

“A sound plan, and something I’d love to have done, if only. Blasted Finchley, with his threats. Can’t let him take the dukedom.”

Her hand covered Harry’s larger one. “We won’t,” she promised.