The Inconvenient Duchess. Christine Merrill

she was honourable, and this was all some horrible mistake, she deserved the protection of his name, and should be willing to submit graciously to her new husband. She’d had ample opportunity to stop this farce of a marriage at the beginning, yet she’d said nothing. She now had no reason to cry nay at the inevitable climax of the day.

      But if she was some trollop foisted on him by a combination of bad fortune and his mother’s need for redemption? Then he could enjoy his wife’s favours, knowing that he was not taking any liberties that she had not given elsewhere. And when he found the truth he would throw her out into the street, bag and baggage, reputation be damned. She could scream and cry all she liked, but where there was no wedding licence, there was no wedding. He was bound by no legal contract and no amount of crying women and hand-wringing preachers would persuade him to keep her.

      Besides, the quickest way to discover her honour or lack of it might be to do the deed. Seeing the wench naked, he could look for a telltale bulging belly or lack of modesty.

      But if she was innocent? Then planning was required.

      He arrived in his room and paused with his hand on the knob. How best to set the scene? His room or hers? Hers, he suspected. Then, when it was through, she could have the comfort of familiarity, if such could be gained by twenty-four hours’ occupancy.

      Dressed or undressed? Undressed would be easier. There was certainly a pleasure in slow discovery, but, perhaps in this case, expediency might be better.

      Undressed, then. But how far? Not totally. To arrive naked in her room? Certainly not. If she was a virgin, there was no telling how much information she’d received on the activities of the marriage bed. Unclothed and fully aroused was no condition in which to give anatomy lessons. Perhaps even now, she was sitting primly in her bed in her best night-rail and cap, waiting for her husband.

      And the thought made him smile.

      Very well. Her room. He’d arrive in his dressing gown, and sit on the corner of her bed so as not to alarm her. They’d chat. And soon he would be sitting beside her. He would take her hand to reassure her. Then he’d take her lips.

      And soon he’d take the rest of her and the business would be done.

      He stripped without the help of his valet, and put on a brocade dressing gown. He pulled the knot of the robe tight and nodded in approval of himself. There. A plan was in place and things would continue to their successful conclusion.

      And he opened the connecting door to her room.

      They could continue, except for the absence of one important component. His wife was nowhere to be found.

      * * *

      She glared in to the pantry. How did the house run on such a meagre store of food? A bit of cheese and bread was all she wanted, but she’d expected to find more. The snack she was taking seemed hardly fit for the mice she’d startled when she came into the room.