Foolish to feel offended because she didn’t appear eager to wed him. “Yes, and should she like some assistance, my secretary is at her disposal. Prinny has offered his personal pastry chef, Marie-Antoine Carême, for the cake and the wedding breakfast.”
“That is most generous of the Regent. Mama will be thrilled,” she said. “I’m sure it will all be superb.”
Charles smiled, pushing away his pique. “I have been fortunate to sample some of Carême’s patisseries at the prince’s table. His pastry sculptures made from sugar and marzipan are called pièces montées and are quite spectacular.”
As if in anticipation, her tongue licked her bottom lip. “I do enjoy dessert.”
Charles cleared his throat and took a firmer hold of the reins. “Then I assure you, you will not be able to resist these.”
She laughed. “I have no intention of it.”
He visualized feeding her one. Licking the sugar from those full lips and allowed his mind to dwell on other possibilities as he drew the horses to the side of the curb.
“Ah, there is Reilly,” he said, turning to her. “Still remarkably hale and hearty.”
She wrinkled her nose at him.
He chuckled as he helped her down and escorted her inside. Alone in the salon, they took seats by the fire.
Nellie rang for tea. “Mother is resting with a megrim. She will be very sorry to have missed you.”
“I hope she recovers soon.” He took the armchair opposite, crossed his legs, and studied her. The misty weather had made those stray wisps curl against her cheek. He studied his hands, resisting the temptation to reach across and tidy them. “When I am free to do so, shall we honeymoon in Italy? A friend, Baron Giordano, has offered us his villa in Venice.”
“Visiting Italy has long been a dream of mine.”
“We can travel around the country, visit Rome, Florence…”
“Oh, Charles!” Her warm smile embraced him. “How wonderful!”
He was gratified to have pleased her. “I have engagements which keep me in London for the rest of this week, but then I should like you and your parents to join me at Shewsbury Park. My mother writes she is unable to come to London at present. Something of importance keeps her in Leicestershire.” Although he couldn’t imagine what would be more important than meeting his fiancée.
“I look forward to meeting her and visiting Shewsbury Park.”
A footman brought the tea. Nellie busied herself, preparing the brew. She added a slice of lemon to the tea, the way he liked it, and handed him the cup and saucer.
“Nellie?”
Her questioning gaze met his. “Yes?”
“Does becoming my wife make you nervous?”
Her hand shook slightly as she stirred sugar into her tea. “Perhaps a little. I never imagined myself as a duchess. It entails considerable responsibilities. But I am eager to embrace it. You have bestowed a great honor on me, Charles.” She smiled shyly at him, “I am grateful.”
He referred to becoming his wife. Might she have deliberately misunderstood him? He nodded, disliking her gratitude with unaccustomed vehemence. “Then there is nothing else that worries you?”
“No. Why would there be?”
A smile in her eyes, she offered him a plate of apricot tartlets.
“No reason, I suppose.” He took one, urging himself to be patient. She was evading him again, slipping out of his grasp like a trout escaping the hook.
Chapter Eight
The Brocklehurst’s overly perfumed reception rooms were always popular, and tonight was no exception. Guests crammed every corner. The hum of conversation almost drowned out Nellie’s words as she spoke to a friend, Lady Mary Bellamy, whom she’d met in her first Season and who had subsequently married an earl.
Nelly kept an eye out for Charles. The long-case clock had just chimed the hour. Eleven o’clock, and he had not arrived. She examined her feelings. Was she disappointed or insulted? Worry was uppermost, she decided, for it didn’t bode well for their future together that he cared so little for her to actually attend.
“Your fiancé is here,” Lady Mary said, spying him before Nellie did.
Nellie’s heart lifted when he strolled into the room. After greeting their hostess, he made his way toward her. All the women he passed turned to observe him. She accepted they were no less immune to his appeal than she was.
Before he reached her, a lady claimed his attention. Nellie became aware of a faint stirring in the room.
When Lady Mary excused herself and left Nellie alone, she faltered, her face stiff, her smile plastered on. Heads turned from her to the duke with unfeigned interest when his former fiancée, Lady Drusilla, the Marchioness of Thorburn, detained him in conversation. Mourning clothes seemed to become her. She was even more waifish and slender. Talking animatedly, she gazed up at him with what Nellie considered a wistful expression on her beautiful face.
Nellie grew suddenly too warm and fiddled with her bracelet.
When she glanced up again, Charles said something that made Drusilla turn in Nellie’s direction. He bowed slightly and left her.
“Sorry I’m late.” When he reached her, he took her hand and raised it to kiss her gloved fingers. “My brother and his wife have just arrived in London. They are weary and have retired for the evening but express their eagerness to meet you.”
“And I look forward to making their acquaintance.” She sounded shaky. While Charles spoke of his brother and sister-in-law, all she could think of was Drusilla.
Nellie’s cousin had told her the marchioness came to London to find a virile lover. Of course, Drusilla’s first choice would be Charles. They were probably lovers years ago. Nellie scolded herself. That did not mean that he would wish to pursue the relationship again, especially after what happened between them. No, he would not…
“Nellie?” He raised his brows. “I don’t believe you’ve heard a word I said.”
She swallowed. “But of course I did. Do go on.”
Humor brightened his blue eyes. “What was I saying?”
Her eyes narrowed, and she fell silent.
He studied her for a moment, then took her elbow. “Allow me to show you
