I married the wrong man, Part 3

The Accidental Duchess
by Jessica Benson

(Page 3 of 3)

"But why would I — And you believed that I would allow — " I closed my eyes again. First of all, I was not entirely certain that I wanted to know what he believed. And quite honestly, I suppose I was hoping that when I opened them again this would turn out to be some type of delusion. He stayed silent while I tried to sort my words and wished he'd disappear. A fresh wave of humiliation washed over me. There was simply no getting around it: I had behaved like a common whore in his arms. "You certainly weren't pretending to seduce me," I said, at last.

"No." His voice was quiet. He was extremely still. "Forgive me. At the time it had not occurred to me that you were unwilling."

I laughed. I was bordering on hysterics, and I knew it. "Yes, I can see that," I said, disliking the way my own voice was rising. "Because under the impression that you were my husband and this was my wedding night, I behaved far too willingly?" And then, I started to cry. I wiped the tears away on the back of my hand.

He stood, and put out a hand. "Gwen," he said, in let's-be-reasonable tones, but I was having none of it. I was starting to sob in earnest.

I could see my reflection mirrored in the window. Tears were running unchecked down my face. My skin was blotchy. My eyes were red, my nose, redder. I turned and faced him. His dark hair was still disarranged, falling across his arrogant forehead. His improbably blue eyes were dark under straight brows, and his jaw was very square at the moment. He looked every inch the duke that he would some day be. And it hit me with the force of a blow: How on earth had I ever thought he was Milburn? How stupid could a person be?

I suppose it would be reasonable, at this point, were you to wonder how I could have ended up being quite so stupid. But understanding the situation requires going back a little way.

This was never, you must know, a love match. Milburn and I had been promised to each other likely since the week I was born. Milburn, who is Lord Bertie, and Harry, who is, as I have mentioned, the Earl of Cambourne and future Duke of Winfell, grew up at Marshfields, principal seat to the Dukes of Winfell since the days of Queen Elizabeth. Give or take a year. And I was raised next door at Hildcote.

As my hapless brothers, Richard and James, ran tame with Milburn and Cambourne, so did I. Lord knows, over the years I'd seen a vast succession of nursemaids and governesses, and then later tutors and schoolmasters bamboozled by their tricks — among which, switching identities held pride of place. But for most of my life, I had possessed the unfailing ability to tell them apart. A lot of good this lifelong ability had done me, however, since it had obviously failed me at that crucial moment when I had stood at the altar and sworn faithfully in front of God and some three hundred witnesses to love, honor, and obey the wrong man.

And now, a new, even worse thought hit me. "Does Milburn know about this?" I demanded.

He moved a step closer, almost as you would approach a horse you were trying to gentle.

"Don't touch me! This is a joke, isn't it? One of your vile little twin practical jokes. Seduce your brother's wife? Oh God."

"Gwen," he said, very quietly, "I realize that you've had a shock, but surely you cannot believe what you just said?"

"I don't know what to believe," I whispered.

"Perhaps, then, I can enlighten you."

"No!" It might have been childish, but I had no desire to hear him. "Please leave me."

"I can't do that."

"Oh yes, you can."

"I see." He studied me unhurriedly. "I had thought better of you," he said lightly, and I was stung.

"But... Milburn..." Does he care? was what I badly wanted to ask, but was afraid to hear the answer. At the thought that he very well might not, my tears started afresh. "Where is he?"

He stood for a moment, his back still to me, and took a breath. "I do not know," he said, as he turned to me. His face was carefully neutral.

I eyed him. How could he not know? "But we — us — I am truly married to you?"

"Yes," he said, with no trace of hesitation.

"Not to Milburn."

"No."

"But how could that be? It is not as though you have the same name, after all, for all that they are similar...." I stared at him, and he was silent, I suppose allowing me to work it out. "It was your name!" I said, almost lost in wonder at my own stupidity. "Reverend Twigge said your name and I never even noticed?"

He nodded.

"Edmund Harold Bertram is you," I said, more to myself than to him. "And Edward Henry Bernard is Milburn, and still, they called him Bertie. I knew that, of course. But somehow I just..." I trailed off and looked at him. "Didn't notice, I suppose. And you thought — you thought I had agreed to this?"

He nodded. "I'm afraid so, Gwen," he said, very quietly.

"We can have it annulled, though?" I asked, and understood all too well the meaning when he hesitated. "Leave," I said to him. "I only want you to leave."

Don't misunderstand. I knew I was being unreasonable. I also knew that I had larger problems, but at the moment I simply could not get over my humiliation, both at his deception and my own behavior. My practically flinging myself at a man might have been excusable, if slightly overwarm, for my wedding night. My doing the same with the wrong man, was not.

"Gwen — " he began, and I cut him off.

"Not tonight. Just leave."

"Are you certain that's what you want?"

I nodded, despite the fact that I wasn't.

He looked at me, and I was uncomfortably aware of a hard-edged will beneath the surface. He seemed to me, though, to have decided to keep it submerged, because he took a deep breath and capitulated. "Right," he said, beginning to move toward the door with obvious reluctance.

And now, here we are, at my lowest moment: As he started to walk away, it occurred to me. My dress was unbuttoned. I had no maid and there was no question of me being able to button it myself. I had no choice. "Cambourne?"

"Yes?" He turned from the door.

"My, um..." I gestured at my back. "I cannot."

He crossed back to me. I could not for the life of me understand why the Earl of Cambourne, future Duke of Winfell, would have married me under false pretenses. But I also was too humiliated and too stubborn to allow him to explain himself. Unattractive, I know, but regrettably true. As his nimble fingers closed my buttons, I began to sob again. "Were you pretending to want me, too?" I shouldn't have asked, but I couldn't stop myself.

His hands still lingered on the last button as he turned me toward him. "No," he said, and then he kissed me. Hard.

There was no question at this point but that I was not going to be seduced by his kiss. Not even a little. But — and here is the absolute nadir of the humiliation part — my body wanted him still. And enough, even, to overrule my mind. As his mouth closed on mine, my knees seemed to disintegrate along with my will, and that hot, shaking excitement in my stomach that had so recently been stirred within me for the first time, started again. My arms, of their own volition, went to him.

After a moment, though, he lifted his head and stood looking down at me. I thought he might say something.

I waited a moment and hoped I wasn't panting. He didn't speak. But then, he hardly needed to. My response to his kiss had said plenty. "How could you?" I asked, trying to banish the light-headedness in favor of righteous indignation.

But his tone was equable. "Perhaps you'd best ask your parents. In the meantime, I'll have a maid sent up to help you." And then he left, striding out of our suite and closing the door very deliberately behind him in a manner that led me to believe that he was restraining himself from giving it a really good, satisfying kick.

Copyright © 2004 by Jessica Benson

About the Author

Jessica Benson is the RITA award-winning author of Lord Stanhope's Proposal and Much Obliged. She lives in New York with her husband — who is of course very much like a Regency duke would be if he were a commercial litigator — and two very noisy young sons, neither of whom seem to be able to recall where the laundry hamper is located.