Chapter Twenty-six

MAY 1816

XPECTING A BABY forced one to change plans, even about an independent life.

Spring had brought the moors to life, and Anne smiled as she walked along the path to her cottage. This was one change: She could not stride swiftly back home from the nearby village of Princeton. Every few yards she had to stop and puff out a few breaths. She was now the size of a house, with a taut, rounded belly, swollen ankles, and hunger that seemed never to cease.

Still, she was achieving everything she’d wanted. She was content—except for the great pain in her heart. Her heart was not growing any protective scar tissue at all. It simply hurt.

At the post office, she had collected a letter from her great-grandmother, and it was tucked into her pocket. Lady Julia had agreed Anne must live quietly out of sight until she bore her baby, but they wrote regularly. In that, Devon had been right. Anne was so happy to have family. But she cradled her belly as she walked. “I hope, when you are old enough to understand, you can forgive me, little one. I fear you won’t. I don’t know if I could, if I were you. I do promise you will never want for anything.” It was true. Devon had not understood her refusal, but he had been very generous. Even though she had simply … left him.

When she began her school in the Whitechapel stews, he’d sent her the settlement he’d promised in her contract. He’d also sent a generous donation. With it, she had been able to employ teachers and refurbish a large town house to use as both a school and a home for the girls.

Three months ago she’d come here and rented a small cottage on the moors. Even with high-waisted gowns and voluminous skirts, she feared her pregnancy was too obvious. She could not cause a scandal, which would hurt her school and her students.

And she couldn’t return to active involvement. Not unless she gave up her baby, and she was not going to do that. Her fear was that someday her child would learn a duke had asked for her hand in marriage, that he or she could have been born a legitimate child to wealth and privilege, except that his—or her—mother had said no.

It was for the best. Devon’s sister Elizabeth was now engaged to a handsome earl, and the London scandal sheets were abuzz with the latest rumor about the Duke of March. In five days a ball was to be held at March House. It was the on-dit that he would announce his engagement at the ball. While there had been weeks of speculation as to the lady’s identity, it apparently remained a mystery. Still, in five days, Devon would belong to someone else.

The path began to descend, slowly winding between boulders and gorse bushes. Sheep darted across the path, searching for grasses to nibble. Anne took slow steps, punctuating each sensible word that she spoke aloud with deep, hard breaths. “It. Is. For. The. Best.”

A black-faced sheep looked up, eyed her doubtfully, and bleated.

There were no trees on the sweeping hills of the moors. She had a clear view of her cottage. Given that she was pregnant and unmarried, she’d wanted to be isolated. In the winter, though, she’d been very, very alone. She’d kept busy during those long nights by sewing in preparation for the baby and by reading. Though reading made her think longingly of Devon—

A carriage was rumbling up the track to her cottage. Sunlight lit an insignia on the door. It stopped near and the door swung open. Anne forgot to draw a breath, even when the outriders assisted an elegant lady to her path. It was Lady Cavendish, and, behind her, two other young women spilled out of the coach.

The servants moved sharply forward again as a white-gloved hand gracefully extended from the shadowy doorway. Another elegant woman was helped down the steps, a rose-trimmed hat hiding her face. Could this be Devon’s other sister? Why on earth were they here?

Lady Cavendish clasped Anne’s hands, then hugged her. She waved toward the two young ladies. “My sisters Elizabeth and Winifred. And this is”—she turned toward the tall lady who stepped gracefully forward—“our mother, the Duchess of March.”

His mother? Anne blinked as the duchess approached and took her hand. Devon’s mother was beautiful, of course, with vivid blue eyes. A rueful smile lifted the duchess’s lovely mouth. Then she asked, “You are expecting my son’s child?”

Anne couldn’t speak. She managed a nod, with her face burning, then tried to execute a curtsy. The duchess stopped her. “You did not tell him?”

She felt so guilty for … for being pregnant and for not telling Devon she was. “I did not want to make things more complicated. He proposed to me, but marriage between us was impossible, and I feared that telling him about the child would …” Her voice died away.

“You thought my son would insist on marriage.”

Anne gaped at the duchess, who took her hand and led her toward the cottage. “Let us go inside and discuss this.”

Panic hit Anne. “Oh, no, Your Grace. It is just a cottage. It’s very simple.”

A musical laugh danced on the air. “I am quite sure it will be fine, my dear.”

Caro moved close to Anne and whispered by her ear, “Mama wanted us to bring her to you so she could meet you. Devon has done nothing but slouch in a chair and stare at the wall since you left. The only time he showed any pleasure was when he went to visit your school.”

He had gone to her school? It did not surprise her, but it touched her heart. He must be the only duke who had gone to a school for destitute girls in Whitechapel.

Inside, Anne quickly lit the stove and set a kettle on top. She tried to pull out one of her chairs for the duchess, but Devon’s mother took it from her hands. “You will use this.” The duchess smiled as Anne slowly lowered to the chair. “You must know why we have come, Miss Beddington. It is to encourage you to change your mind and accept Devon’s proposal.”

Was she in a dream? Anne pinched her arm and smothered a yelp of pain. “You could not want me as a daughter-in-law. I am ruined—”

“My dear, you have behaved with exemplary discretion since you left my son. You have done a wonderful thing to help impoverished children. Devon glows when he speaks your name. It is pride and admiration but also because he loves you. I have always urged him to marry for love. He challenged me to accept his love for you. I am sorry to say I could not at the beginning. Now I can see how much it hurts him to be without you. Treadwell tells me he is exactly as he was when he first returned from battle. He is grieving and lost. You helped him once. You could do so again, if you love him. You must tell me. Did you reject him because you do not love him?”

The duchess’s speech left Anne whirling. “No … I … I love him very much. I said no to protect him and all of you! I do not want him to be the way he was before.” It truly couldn’t be because of her, could it? How could it be, if he was supposed to be ready to announce his engagement? She pushed up from the chair. “I wish to help him at once.”

“I know, dear, and that is why I believe you must marry him,” the duchess said.

Dark-haired Lizzie leapt forward. “Protecting us doesn’t matter anymore! Caro and Charlotte are safely married, and I am going to be wed in a month’s time. We would rather see Devon happy than watch him suffer his way through a duty marriage. Mama has refused to let any girl of the ton marry him, you know, when he is obviously so deeply in love with you. It would be a recipe for disaster.”

“But isn’t Devon going to announce his engagement?” Anne asked.

The duchess nodded. “I fear he has decided to marry someone he does not love.”

Winifred, obviously the youngest of Devon’s sisters, hastened to the whistling kettle. “My plan is to marry the Earl of Ashton, although the earl doesn’t know it yet. It wouldn’t bother him at all if Devon married you, Miss Beddington.”

“You are not going to marry the Earl of Ashton,” the duchess said swiftly. But then she sighed. “He loves you, Miss Beddington, and you love him. I want only to make this work. Tell me, are you willing to marry my son?”

Devon shut his eyes. He was in his study at March House, and his sisters had just returned from a trip to see Anne. Through Lady Julia, they had learned that Anne had taken a cottage on the moors.

He kept his eyes closed—what an irony that he was trying not to see. But Caro did not go away. She strode to him, and he heard Peregrine give a squeaky giggle as her swift pace bounced him up and down.

“We went to convince her to come back and agree to marry you,” Caro declared. “But once we saw her, we knew it was impossible.”

“Impossible?” He opened his eyes, jerked up in his chair. “Why? Has she found someone else?” Tension sent him off the seat and into rapid pacing on the study carpet. “Caro, she refused to marry me because of all of you—”

“That was why we all went to her—Mother, Lizzie, Win, and I. Now that Lizzie is engaged and Win has set her heart on Ashton, there is no need to be worried about marriage prospects.”

“Win is not going to marry Ashton. And there is your husband to think of, Caro, as well as Charlotte’s.”

“Oh, rubbish, Devon. You asked her once already! This didn’t bother you then—”

“He’s afraid!” He turned as Win rushed through the study door. “He is afraid to ask her again, in case she says no. Our brother is afraid she refused him because she doesn’t love him.”

Caro said softly, “She loves you, Devon. That was why she refused you in the first place.”

He winced and turned away. “That makes no sense. And she said she wasn’t in love.”

“When a woman loves a man, she does not want to hurt him. Of course she said she doesn’t love you. She believed she had to walk away. But she is enceinte, Devon.”

He spun on his heel to see Caro glaring fiercely at him. “She is expecting your child. It was quite obvious she is very, very near her time. Peregrine arrived early. You might have very little time to marry her before the baby comes.”

“Yes!” Lizzie popped her head around the door. “There is no other choice, Devon. You must go to her. And you must hurry!”

Caro waved his other sisters away. She opened her mouth, but Devon stopped her with a shake of his head. “She told me she wants independence, Caro, not marriage.”

“Devon, she is going to have your child!”

“I should force her into marriage out of duty and responsibility?”

“If that gets her to the altar, I would use it. I know she loves you. Before we left, I asked her if she believed it was right to deny you the chance to be a father to your child.”

He blinked. He’d never known Caro to be so blunt or so harsh. “What did she say?”

“What could she say? She tried to look stoic and determined. She tried to bluster through an excuse. But she knew, in her heart, nothing could justify denying both you and her the chance to have a loving family. Please go to her, Devon. If you don’t, Lizzie, Win, and I have decided we will work together to make your life a nightmare.”

He quirked a brow. “How so?”

“Do you remember all the ways you used to tease us? Salamanders in our beds. Flour in my face powder, and a noxious-scented liquid in Lizzie’s first bottle of perfume. The things we can do to you will be worse. If you refuse to marry Anne, I will throw giggling young women at you until you go mad.”

Go mad. Ten months ago he’d thought he was going mad. Anne had forced him out of his self-imposed darkness. Now she was the one hiding.

“Do you still love her, Devon?”

“I’ll always love her, Caro.”

“Then go! Go marry the woman you love, Devon. After all the pain you’ve endured, I want you to have a happy ending. We all do.”

He knew she was right. But he asked, “An ending?”

“Of your bachelor life. The beginning of a much richer and more wonderful life, I promise.”

“No need to promise, Caro. I believe you.”

Devon ducked beneath the eave of the low roof and rapped on the cottage door. He waited but heard nothing moving inside. He pounded again. His fist slammed into the door so hard the leather of his gloves split over his knuckles. “Anne! Are you there?”

There was no sound except the mournful moans of the wind. It was a typical English spring day on the moors—rain pelted his greatcoat and wind whipped across the back of his neck. His blood felt icy for reasons that had nothing to do with the weather on the moors. Was he too late? Where was Anne?

Panic gripped him. The same fear and tension that had haunted him in battle. Something is wrong. It was almost crippling, but he fought through it and headed for the stone stable. A pony munched hay, and as he stalked around the building, he almost collided with a stableboy.

“Where is your mistress?” He prayed the lad wouldn’t say she had gone into labor. What if something had gone wrong? “I am the Duke of March,” he added awkwardly. “A friend.”

“My mistress went walking along the path.” The lad pointed to a narrow track that went along the hills. “Up to the tor.”

Then he saw her. A small figure trudging up the path. She was walking. Alone. Even from here, he could tell she was very rounded. Caro had said she could go into labor at any minute.

Next thing he knew, he was running up the path, pursuing her as fast as he could. Before he’d left, Lizzie had admonished, You gave up far too easily! Win had added, If you love her, you have to keep fighting for her heart and never give in. They were two of the most romantic girls in England. But they were right. He should have fought for her. For seven months he’d been introduced to every eligible gently bred girl in England, which had proven his point. No other woman could capture his heart as Anne had. And because he hadn’t pursued her, he’d missed all those months while she’d been enceinte. He’d missed the chance to see her glow and change as their baby grew. “Anne!” he yelled. “Stop!”

She did, turning slowly. Rain lashed her. “Devon?”

He ran to her and swept her up in his arms. But she gave a squeak as he pressed her belly to him, and he immediately put her down. “Angel, I’m sorry.” He had been an idiot. In battle, would he have given up so easily? He had struggled for hours to take a few yards of land, but he’d been willing to let the love of his life go. He hadn’t wanted to treat Anne like someone who should be conquered. He’d loved her and he’d wanted her to have what she wanted. Even if it was a life that didn’t include him. That was what his sisters didn’t understand.

When a man was in love, he couldn’t throw a woman over his shoulder and drag her back to his bedroom. He had no right to pursue a woman at any cost, as he’d done with Rosalind. Love meant accepting her choice, even if it broke his heart.

He was going to fight for her, but if she refused him again, he had no choice but to let her go.

“Devon, why have you come here? In four days you are supposed to be getting engaged.”

“That was an unfounded rumor. But I’m hoping to get engaged today. Here. Now. There is no one for me, Anne, but you.”

Her face paled. She touched her belly suddenly. He gathered her into his arms and began to carry her down the path. “All right. Not here,” Devon said. “You shouldn’t be walking in your condition. Certainly not alone, up a rocky path, in a storm.”

“And you should not be carrying me, Devon. I fear we’ll both fall.”

A tender look came to Devon’s eyes. Anne swallowed hard. It was a look that could steal a woman’s heart. She loved him. Seven months had done nothing to change that. She still loved him breathlessly. Endlessly. Hopelessly.

“I came in hopes of sweeping you off your feet. Instead, I have to put you back down.” He did so but tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “You’re right, as always. I can’t sweep you away and make you do what I want. I tried to do that before—when I hauled you to your great-grandmother and insisted you go into Society. I wanted you so much, I unfortunately became the soldier I’d been in battle and tried to win you as I would a military mission. I hope you will believe I’ve learned my lesson. Years ago I felt I had to capture the woman I wanted. Now I’ve realized that loving you means I have to give you the choice. I want you, but I can’t come and take you by force. All I can do is give you my offer one more time and hope you will say yes.”

When Devon, a duke, said, I’ve learned my lesson, Anne went weak in the knees.

“I love you, Anne. I have the blessing of every member of my family to pursue you.” He grinned. “They did more than give me their approval. They demanded I come to you at once.”

She wanted to believe it. Once upon a time, she’d been a gently bred young lady who could dream of romance and love. Survival had made her practical. She loved this man, too much to allow him to make a choice he would eventually regret. “Your sisters told me I won’t hurt their marriage prospects, but the scandal of our marriage will still hurt them. I was a whore,” she said flatly. “How can I marry a duke and become a duchess? I’ll never be accepted. I have to think of our baby. My tarnished reputation will affect our child.”

“Believe me, Anne, no one in Society will dare say a word against you—”

“Devon, you have not bludgeoned any more men in Hyde Park, have you?”

“No. They know better than to provoke me. When you are my wife, they will treat you with respect.”

“Grudgingly. Venom will be behind the politeness, and that will find a way of coming out.”

He stopped and turned her to face him. He was white-faced, the wind whipping his wet hair. “Anne, what does it matter what anyone thinks? I don’t care about your past, and I don’t give a damn what hypocritical society matrons think of it. I love you for who you are. For seven months I’ve watched in awe as you opened your school and worked to change the world. You are the most amazing woman I’ve ever known.” He ducked his head. “Or do you keep saying no because you don’t feel I’m good enough for you?”

“Devon!”

Hesitantly, he reached out. The bulge of her belly stood between them, and he rested his palm on the crest of the curve. “I want our child to be legitimate. I want to raise our baby with you. Let me have that, Anne. I promise to be a good husband and father. I know you want independence, but would you be willing to trust me and let me try to make you and our child happy?”

Her heart broke. Of course she wanted to marry him, and he had come here in a mad dash and deserved honesty. “I want to say yes, but I’m so afraid—”

Her stomach tightened so intensely, she couldn’t speak. She splayed her hand over her belly, just below his. She had to pant for breath. He held her elbow, keeping her up. A whoosh of water soaked her between her thighs. “Goodness! I was walking alone because … because the midwives in the stews always claimed that a baby might come if a woman was active. I was getting impatient! I think I did too good a job—my water just broke. The baby is coming!”

The pains were coming quickly. Devon prayed the parson hadn’t left the sitting room.

He’d had his servants bring the midwife and parson here, but Anne’s cottage was surprisingly rustic and sparse. Water had boiled earlier on the stove, and now he used the warm water to bathe her face. He stroked back her sweat-dampened hair. How could he ever have let her walk away from him?

“I know what Society is like,” she whispered. “I hate it for the fact that it holds innocent victims to blame. I despise the ton for condemning girls who are ‘ruined’ simply because a man takes advantage of them. I know I will never fit in with Society. You are a duke. You need a wife who is clever, witty, admired by the ton—”

She broke off. The pains were coming again. He pressed on her back as the midwife had instructed. “I want a wife who dazzles me every moment of the day—with her brilliant mind, her good heart, her sensuality, and her strength. The only woman who dazzles me is you, Anne.”

“I don’t know if I have the strength to stare down gossip.” She flinched as the pain intensified. She arched against his hand. “I’m afraid that if I go back into Society, I’ll discover I don’t have any courage at all.”

“You are the most courageous woman I’ve ever known, and I promise I will always be at your side. I’m not leaving now or ever.”

“It’s true—you are at my side now.” Another pain came and forced Anne to stay quiet. Her breaths came in fierce puffs, and he coaxed her through it. That one had come without any rest between. The midwife had told them there would be a period of very fast, very intense pains, and then the real business of pushing the baby out would begin.

Most peers would stay in the study and drink through their wife’s labor. Yet Devon was with her, soothing her, giving her courage. How could she keep him from being a true father to his child, just because she was afraid? She had been afraid in the brothel but determined to survive. She had been afraid when she’d discovered those poor innocents were being held prisoner, but she had rescued them. How could she be more afraid of the ton than of people like Madame and Mick Taylor?

Was it because she truly was ashamed? Devon wasn’t. He told her he didn’t care. He knew all the worst things about her and loved her anyway. He had risked his life in battle. How could she not risk far less to give this wonderful man the family he wanted? How could she be so cowardly that she couldn’t accept love from this perfect man? “Oh, my God,” she cried. “I’ve been an idiot—”

Another pain. Oh, God. Through a haze, she heard Devon tell her forcefully, “You have not, Anne. I understand why you are afraid. I wouldn’t go home or go out in public because I couldn’t see. I was happier hiding. I do understand. And I would never let you be hurt.”

“Yes. I want to … to marry you. Yes!” Her words came out in a breathless jumble, but fear turned her heart to ice. “I’ve left it too late. It’s too late!”

“Never,” he assured her. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. Her hair was stringy with sweat. Then Devon went to the bedroom door, pulled it open, and hauled a man inside. She goggled. It was Reverend White from the village. Shielding his eyes, the reverend let Devon drag him to the head of her bed.

“We’re ready to say our vows,” Devon said, as though it was utterly normal to be wed in the middle of childbirth. “But you’ll understand, sir, we should make this hasty.”

Blushing fiercely, Reverend White sputtered, “Indeed. Yes, Your Grace. Quite quickly.” He lay a book over his hand and clumsily flipped pages. Words began to flow over Anne. “We are gathered here,” the reverend began austerely. Anne couldn’t help it—she dissolved in giggles. Which stopped abruptly as she panted through a labor pain. When it eased, she saw both men peering at her, looking awkward.

“Her full name is Anne Mariah Beddington,” Devon said.

“Do you, Anne Mariah Beddington, take this man—”

The rest was lost to another spasm in her womb, and she cried, “Yes. I do. Yes.”

“Could we do this faster?” Devon asked.

The poor man tried, though he stumbled hopelessly over Devon’s extensive name: Devon William George Stephen Audley. Then he got to the moment where the question was done, and Devon had to give his answer. “I do,” Devon said. “Nothing on heaven and earth will keep me from taking this woman as my wife.”

“Then I now pronounce you man and wife,” the reverend concluded. “Now, as swiftly as I can, I will complete the marriage lines, and you will sign them.”

As the man took a seat at Anne’s small writing desk, Devon brought the midwife back in. The woman hurried to her, lifted her skirts, and looked. “The head is beginning to crown.”

Anne winced. “What a madwoman I was to leave this so dangerously close.”

But Devon took her hand and kissed her. “It’s done now. You are my wife. You aren’t escaping me ever again.”

The reverend returned with the marriage document. Devon signed it, then held it for her so she could. With a swift stroke of the pen, she became Devon’s wife.

Anne had thought, with the head making an appearance, that the business would be swift. But apparently the head could recede again. The true work of labor had just begun. She pushed, breathed, screamed, and strained. She was dizzy with pain and exhaustion and worry. Surely it shouldn’t take this long. Not when the baby was so close. But no matter how hard she pushed, she seemed to get nowhere. At one horrible moment, the midwife told her to resist the urge to push. She tried, her body rebelling. With Devon holding her hand, speaking firmly but lovingly, she managed to do it. She understood why men had gone into battle for him. He had a way of making her believe she could do this.

“All right, Miss—”

“Actually,” Devon corrected the midwife in his elegant drawl, “Miss Beddington—I mean, Mrs. Audley—is my wife and is the Duchess of March.”

“Duchess?” The woman blanched. “Goodness. Well, Your Grace, you must give a good push.” The midwife clasped Anne’s leg and pressed Anne’s foot to her hip. Anne gave a huge push, but the midwife coaxed her for more and more.

Then Devon said, “Anne, there’s a head.”

She was too exhausted to say anything, but she laughed for joy.

“Another push for the shoulder, Your Grace,” the midwife urged.

After that, she felt a slippery sort of motion, then a cry filled the room. “Good and healthy,” the woman crooned in a triumphant tone.

Anne felt triumphant, too, in a wash of joy that left her giddy.

“A blanket, if you please, Your Grace,” the midwife said to Devon. Then she brought the bundle-wrapped infant to Anne.

“Is he a boy or is she a girl?” Anne asked Devon, confused.

He blinked. “I forgot to look.”

She laughed, delirious with relief and happiness. “I thought dukes were anxious for sons.”

“I’d love a daughter too. Though if she’s like her mother, I will have gray hair very soon.” Gently, he parted the blanket and they both peeked.

“There, you are safe,” Anne giggled. “A boy.” Thank heaven, she’d found sense and courage and married Devon, so his son could be his heir. And, thank heaven, Devon had proved to be such a patient man, willing to wait for her. Willing to pursue her.

The midwife cut the baby’s cord and tied it. Anne discovered the work was not quite done—she was ruthlessly massaged for many minutes until the afterbirth was dealt with. She had also forgotten the worry about bleeding, until the midwife gave a satisfied nod. “I think the bleeding is lessening. A very good sign. I believe all has gone well.” The gray-haired woman bustled to the side of the bed and helped Anne put baby to breast.

“Oh, dear,” Anne said to Devon as she finally managed to get the little mouth to latch on. “I thought this would come naturally and happen with ease.”

“It’s an adventure for us to explore together,” he said. “My darling wife.”

Their son sucked and stared up with surprisingly wise eyes. He looked like a wizened old gentleman with wrinkled skin, a squashed head, and huge violet eyes. Eyes like Devon’s. A ring of dark hair ran around the back of his head. “What a journey you have had, little one,” Anne said softly. She looked to Devon. “Would you like to hold him?”

“A dream come true,” he answered, a glorious smile on his lips. “Just as you are to me.”

The poor man did not get the chance of a wedding night for four weeks. It worried Anne, but Devon did not seem to mind. He insisted she rest and recover, and he spent almost all his time with their son, whom they named William, for that was the name of both her father and Devon’s.

Finally the night came when she was ready. Dressed in a gold peignoir, with her hair loose, Anne stood in front of her cheval mirror. Her hair had returned to its natural color and fell to her waist. She had changed in other ways too. Having William had made her plumper. Her breasts were large and generous. Just looking at their reflection seemed to spur them to fill with milk, and she winced. She pulled the satin away, prayed they wouldn’t leak.

She stared at the connecting door to Devon’s room. They were staying at Eversleigh, one of his four estates. On a wedding night, did she go to his room or did he come to hers? She hadn’t thought to ask. She had pursued him so fiercely at the beginning of their relationship. Then he had pursued her, chasing her to London, then the moors, forcing her to stop hiding and to find happiness. This time, who should pursue whom?

But one question worried her more: What did he want in a wife? She’d seduced him boldly to become his mistress, but should she now be demure in bed? Normally, dukes married untutored innocents. If she was wanton, would it remind him of her past?

He’d said he didn’t care about her past. He’d told her he loved her. She knew he must. No man would go through all the hellish bother she’d put Devon through unless he loved her deeply. But she didn’t know what to do for her wedding night.…

Gathering courage, she stalked to the connecting door, pulled it open. And walked right into Devon’s solid, robe-covered chest. They had met halfway.

Grinning, he kissed her. But she was as stiff and awkward as she’d been at the beginning. He must have sensed it, for he drew back. Shivering, she admitted, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make love to you … as your wife.”

He wrapped his arms around her and drew her into his bedroom. “I want you to be you.”

“But wives should be … proper.”

He laughed. She frowned. She was on tenterhooks, and he chuckled. “I love your wanton sensuality, Anne,” he assured her. “There’s nothing wrong with it. It doesn’t prove you are sinful. There is no rule that states you must lie beneath me, stiff as a board and not enjoying yourself, because you are my wife.”

She had to laugh too. He did make her fears sound … silly.

“I love you, Duchess Anne. You bewitch me. And this is a partnership—in bed and out.”

As though to prove his words, he carried her to his enormous bed and laid her upon it. He gracefully moved over her so his mouth was at her quim, his thighs were on either side of her head, and his erection was wobbling, upside down, before her eyes. She arched up and took him in her mouth. She loved the rich, earthy tang of his skin, the sensation of the shaft swelling and pulsing. Devon had to stop kissing her quim to moan deeply. Then together, as partners, they licked, suckled, nibbled, and drove each other to wild ecstasy.

Anne wailed her climax and fell back to the bed, floating on a cloud of pleasure.

“The perfect wedding night,” he murmured. He moved around so their mouths were in line and kissed her. She could taste her juices on his lips, knew he tasted his flavor on her mouth. He hardened almost instantly and slid inside her.

“Mine,” he whispered against her lips. “Mine always.”

“And you are mine,” she answered.

He was every bit as naughty with her now as he was when she’d been his mistress. Gentlemen, it appeared, always liked their pleasures to be wicked. She climaxed over and over, until all she had to do was gasp when he was inside her and she came.

Finally he collapsed over her, braced on his forearms. “You’ve drained me, angel.”

She wrapped her arms around him, and they fell to the bed together. He groaned. “We might not make love again for another month. It might take me that long to regain my strength.”

She was worried—until he laughed. He nibbled her ear, his breath a warm caress. She was snuggled in his arms, sleepy and content.

He whispered, “Now that William is a month old, love, I want to take you to London. Before the ton leaves for the country for the summer, my mother is determined to hold a ball for us.”

“London?” Panic gripped her. Suddenly she knew she still wanted to hide. But as Devon’s duchess, she couldn’t. She couldn’t avoid London forever. “I don’t want to disappoint your mother. Of course we will go.”

He kissed her forehead. Then her nose, her lips, and each throbbing, aching nipple. “She always wanted me to marry for love, and she was right. I could never have been happy with anyone but you, Anne.”

London meant facing scandal.

Anne had feared one—she was so terrified Devon and his family would be hurt. Of course, their marriage caused shock, horror, and a tremendous furor. At every ball, rout, and musicale, matrons traded gossip behind fluttering fans. Devon was determined to charge through all of the whispered talk. He glared down everyone with icy ducal hauteur. He threatened men who gave her even an appraising look. He took William for strolls in the parks in a perambulator, which dukes simply did not do. Society was calling him the “mad, besotted duke.” He must be deeply hurt to be called mad, and it was all her fault.

Tonight was to be his mother’s ball—the one that had been postponed when Devon came to the moors. The dowager duchess was hosting a grand event to introduce her daughter-in-law to Society. Anne felt as though she were about to face cannons and a charging army. She had accompanied Devon’s mother and Caro to the most fashionable modiste in London, and she wore a gleaming dress of ivy-green silk. Small emeralds adorned her hair.

As she stepped out at the top of the stairs, Devon was waiting in the foyer. His eyes gleamed when he saw her. “You are beautiful,” he said softly. “And I made a good choice.”

“In me?” she asked, confused.

“Yes, and in these.” He drew a long, slim box from his pocket. Inside was a necklace of huge emeralds—a dozen of them, each the size of a robin’s egg. Devon lifted it, dropped the box, and stepped behind her. The stones were cool, heavy, dazzling against her skin. He fastened the clasp, then kissed the nape of her neck. Instantly, she was hot with desire.

“Now, Anne, give me the chance to show the world what you mean to me.”

She had no idea what he meant, but she tipped up her chin and walked with him to the ballroom. At his side, she greeted the two hundred guests. Then, with her hand in his, Devon led her out to dance. Couples whirled around in the waltz, which was considered a most scandalous dance. But Devon stopped. “I wanted to waltz with you. Unfortunately, that will have to wait.”

“Wait?” she echoed. “For what?”

Instead of taking her in his arms, he dropped to one knee before her. Other couples had to weave around him. Many came to an abrupt halt. At the edge of the onlookers, Anne spotted the dowager, and she had a very delighted gleam in her eye.

Devon gazed up at her. “Anne, my love, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

The music halted with a screech. Every head craned toward them, because her husband was proposing to her. Again. She gazed helplessly at him, but his smile only widened.

“Marry me all over again, my duchess. I love you, Anne. You are the most beautiful woman in the world. You have the kindest heart, the most generous nature, but more than that: You are my love. I asked you to marry me once before, but you refused me—”

Fierce whispers washed over the crowd at that.

“You asked me again and I said yes,” she pointed out.

“Then say yes to me this time, love. I want the world to know I love you.”

Everyone waited, straining to hear.

“Yes,” she whispered through a very tight throat. “I love you, too, Devon.”

He surged up, swept her into his arms, and kissed her. In front of two hundred stunned guests, she had just become engaged—to her husband. She could hear the talk buzzing. A duke marrying a courtesan for love? How scandalous. How sordid.

How perfect, Anne thought. And by proposing to her in public, Devon had made himself even more shocking than she was. She loved him. She wanted fervently to show him how much. “Can we escape?” she whispered. “Right now?”

“Eager for another wedding night?”

“I’d like to celebrate our … um … engagement by engaging in a little sin. But we can’t run out on two hundred guests. We should be proper—”

“Anne, angel, neither of us is proper. At heart, we are both wild. So let us be wild.” Devon grinned and set her down on her feet. Despite the shocked gasps they provoked, they darted across the ballroom hand in hand, toward the doors. Toward the future. A glorious future, Anne thought—one that had begun the very moment they had engaged in a bit of delicious sin.