The Inconvenient Duchess. Christine Merrill

she felt as though she had trapped the kiss in her palm and could feel the warmth of it seeping through her.

      The vicar droned the ceremony to its conclusion and she clung to the kiss in her hand. Cici had been correct all along. It was going to be all right. He might be gruff, but there was a tenderness in the way he’d said the vows and made her believe the words, and supported her when she was afraid, and given her his ring.

      Then it was over, and her hand was firmly trapped in the crook of her husband’s arm as they turned to accept the congratulations of the congregation. All two of them.

      The vicar’s wife sniffed politely and allowed that it had been a lovely ceremony, such as it was, and wished them happiness in a tone that stated she thought the chances of it were remote.

      St John’s smile was as bright as ever, if a trifle sad. He clasped his brother’s hand, and Marcus accepted stiffly. ‘Good luck, Marcus. Once again you have more good fortune than you deserve.’ He turned to her. ‘Miranda, dear sister.’ He reached out to grip her hands as well and said, ‘I must be going this afternoon, as my brother wishes. But if there is ever anything I can do for you, the innkeeper in the village will know where to reach me. And now—’ his eyes sparkled ‘—let me be the first to kiss the bride.’

      And before his brother could object, although she saw the storm gathering in his eyes, St John’s lips had come down quickly to buss her own. It was sweet and harmless, and she couldn’t help but smile at his impertinence.

      ‘St John, I believe it is time for you to be going. Long past time, as a matter of fact. And you...’ He looked down at her and she realised again how massive a man he was and shrank away from him, but he pulled her close. ‘You must learn to take care whom you kiss, madam.’

      He stared into her eyes and his own grew dark. She was lost in them, paralysed with nerves and anticipation. Then his mouth covered hers and his hand went to the back of her neck, stroking her hair and sending shivers down her spine. Despite herself, she relaxed and leaned against him, running her hands under his lapels to feel the solidity of his body, letting it support her as his other hand slipped to her waist.

      This was wrong. It must be. The ideas rising within her had no place in a chapel. She opened her mouth to protest and his tongue dipped into it, stroking her tongue and thrusting again, simulating... And she felt the feeling rushing through her in a great shudder.

      She fought for control of her emotions. Dear God, no. She mustn’t respond so. What must he think? She pulled herself out of his arms and stood back, staring up at him in shock. He smiled down at her, one eyebrow raised in surprise. And then he turned away, staring past her at St John’s retreating back.

       Chapter Five

      She was still shaking with mingled passion and panic. How dare he? In a church! In front of the vicar! And she had responded like a common whore. If the kiss had been some sort of test of her experience, she’d probably confirmed his worst fears. Her empty stomach roiled and she covered her mouth, afraid to look at the vicar’s wife lest she be sick on the marble floor. It would only have made the situation worse.

      And her husband would not have noticed. He was already striding out of the chapel and down the hall, following St John at a safe distance, probably to make sure that he was headed towards the stables and away.

      She straightened her back and turned to the vicar and his wife, forcing a smile to her face. ‘Well.’ The word was artificially cheery. ‘I must thank you, Reverend Winslow, and Mrs Winslow, for your concern in the matter of my safety and honour.’

      ‘Hmm. Well, of course, the concern continues, your Grace.’

      For a moment she looked around, expecting to see her husband behind her, and then realised that he was addressing her, the new duchess.

      ‘Thank you, yet again. But I am certain, now that we are married, I will do well here.’

      They continued to stare at her. She had hoped that ‘good day’ was implied in her thanks, but they showed no sign of leaving. They must be expecting something. ‘Well,’ she said again but the cheer in her voice was running thin.

      ‘Perhaps, over the wedding breakfast, we might speak to his Grace once more. To make sure there is nothing further required of us.’ Mrs Winslow’s pointed remark led the way to yet another problem.

      ‘Ah, yes. The wedding breakfast.’ Miranda wondered if anyone on the staff had considered guests. She doubted, after watching his mood in the church, that her husband cared to celebrate. Still, if she could not come up with a bit of cake and some champagne, she might as well find a maid to ready a room for the Winslows. They showed no sign of leaving. ‘Let us go back to the house and see what the servants are preparing.’

      She walked them back and abandoned them in the drawing room with promises of a speedy return, then ran into the hall and shouted for Wilkins.

      He appeared looking as stooped and addled as he had the day before, giving her a long, fishy look that made her suspect he had forgotten who she was.

      ‘Wilkins.’ Her tone was sharp, hoping to cut through the fog of gin in his mind. ‘I need you to find his Grace and ask him to return to the house to say goodbye to the Winslows. And I need to speak to the housekeeper about preparing a small wedding breakfast.’

      ‘Breakfast.’ The word had registered, judging by the panic that crossed his face. ‘That won’t be likely, miss. Housekeeper’s off today.’

      In a flash, the mess she had landed in spread itself before her. The house was unmanageable, the servants intractable, the duke antisocial and oblivious to the chaos around him.

      And, after twenty minutes of rote prayer, she was in charge.

      ‘First, Wilkins—’ her voice was silky smooth

      ‘—you will no longer refer to me as “Miss”. After the ceremony in the chapel this morning, my title is her Grace, the Duchess of Haughleigh. Since I doubt you remember my old name, you need waste little time in forgetting it. If the housekeeper is off, than she needs to make other arrangements for the management of the house while she is gone. Who, exactly, is in charge in her absence?’

      Wilkins’s blank eyes and furrowed brow were answer enough.

      ‘Very well. I will assume no one is in charge, since this is certainly the appearance the house creates. Is the cook available? Sober? Alive? Do we even have a cook, Wilkins?’

      ‘Yes, miss—ma’am—your Grace.’ With each new title, his back got straighter as he addressed her.

      ‘Then you will inform the cook that, if she values her position here, there will be a wedding breakfast laid in the dining room in forty-five minutes. I do not expect a miracle. Just the most she can manage on such short notice. And a bottle or two of the best champagne in the cellars to take our mind off the food. Please find the duke and ask him to join us in the drawing room.’

      The speech must have hit home, for Wilkins toddled off in the direction of the kitchen at a speed as yet unseen by her. Then she turned with as much majesty and command as she could muster and headed back into the drawing room, trying to radiate her half of marital bliss.

      The Winslows were perched on the edges of their respective chairs, awaiting her arrival. She informed them of the brief delay and set to holding up her end of the conversation, which was rather like supporting a dead ox. Topics such as family, past, friends, and thoughts for her future had been exhausted or avoided in the morning’s interviews with Mrs Winslow.

      Efforts to draw the Winslows out on their own lives proved them to be neither well travelled, nor intelligent.

      The clock was ticking by with no evidence of the arrival of the duke. It would serve him right to enter and find himself the topic of conversation. She tried hesitantly, ‘Have you known the Radwell family long, Reverend? For other than connections with the dowager through a guardian