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The Duchess's Next Husband
Terri Brisbin
Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesAll Miranda Warfield had ever wanted was to be a wife to a man, not a title, but her marriage to Adrian, Duke of Windmere, had been merely a polite ton alliance for years.Now, miraculously, the tender, loving Adrian of her youth had returned, making her feel like a bride again. But dare she trust their rekindled romance? For why was Adrian suddenly arranging clandestine meetings with his solicitor? And asking her opinions on several marriageable gentlemen of the ton? Did her husband's eyes betray a secret his ardent lips denied. . . ?
“Adrian, I can put up with all of this.
“I am willing to live in this marriage with nothing more from you than your polite regard. I am even willing to let go of my dreams of having a husband who loves me. But I will not lie beneath you and pretend that I am happy. I will not lie still in my bed and act as though I do not want more.”
“You do not mind the liberties I took? You would welcome them?”
She could not admit to more embarrassing truths to him. She could not…
He lifted her chin and she thought she saw mirth glittering in his hazel-colored eyes. How could a woman not enjoy being naked with a man like this?
Miranda reached up and slid her fingers through his hair. Pulling his head down, she kissed him, tasting the brandy on his tongue and letting him taste her. Out of breath, she nodded to him in answer to the question that still circled inside her thoughts.
“I would welcome them, Adrian. I would.”
He kissed her this time, and she grabbed the lapels of his evening coat to keep her balance…!
The Duchess’s Next Husband
Harlequin Historical #751
Praise for Terri Brisbin
“A lavish historical romance in the grand tradition from a wonderful talent.”
—New York Times bestselling author Bertrice Small on Once Forbidden
The Countess Bride
“Brisbin woos her readers with laughter and tears in this delightful and interesting tale of love.”
—Romantic Times
The Norman’s Bride
“A quick-paced story with engaging characters and a tender love story.”
—Romantic Times
The Dumont Bride
“Rich in its Medieval setting…Terri Brisbin has written an excellent tale that will keep you warm on a winter’s night.”
—Affaire de Coeur
The Duchess’s Next Husband
Terri Brisbin
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Available from Harlequin Historicals and TERRI BRISBIN
The Dumont Bride #634
The Norman’s Bride #696
The Countess Bride #707
The Christmas Visit #727
“Love at First Step”
The King’s Mistress #735
The Betrothal #749
“The Claiming of Lady Joanna”
The Duchess’s Next Husband #751
To Mary Lou Frank, Susan Stevenson, Jennifer Wagner Schmidt, Lyn Wagner, Mary Stella and Colleen Admirand—wonderful women, talented writers and extraordinary friends and colleagues.
Thank you for being there through the ups and downs and everywhere in between, and especially for getting me through 2003 and 2004.
Huzzah!
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Prologue
He slipped inside her body with a practiced ease from their many joinings. Although she softened beneath him, she gave no outward sign that she enjoyed this now as she had in the early days of their marriage. Judging from her reactions to his movements, it was most likely less now than then.
Adrian moved them efficiently toward completion and, even as she let out a soft sigh, he offered a silent prayer that this time they might be successful in creating the heir he needed so much. For the dukedom, he prayed, as he filled her once more and felt his seed begin to release. For his family name and honor, he urged silently, as he thrust deeper within her again. For the continuation of his name, he implored, to whatever power controlled these matters.
Without a word, he withdrew from his wife. Climbing from her bed, he tugged on his robe and ran his fingers through his hair. When he heard the telltale sound of her shifting, and the rustling of the bedcovers, he turned toward the bed and nodded.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said. He always said the same thing, since he appreciated his wife’s cooperation and efforts to gain an heir.
“Windmere,” she replied softly, without ever meeting his gaze.
He nodded at her and returned to his dressing room. Within the hour, the Duke of Windmere was at his club enjoying a particularly good port. And he realized, as the butler served him without him saying a word, that his life was nothing if not predictable.
Chapter One
“Turn your head, if you please, Your Grace.”
Adrian Warfield, Duke of Windmere, suffered the poking and prodding in silence. His name and position had brought three of England’s leading physicians to his home, and his inbred manners prevented him from allowing the escape of the oaths he wanted to speak. If these three men could give him no answers, his future and that of his family and dukedom looked increasingly bleak. Allowing each of them in turn a chance to examine him, Adrian grew impatient when it seemed that the appointment dragged on for too long.
Finally, finally, they stepped away and he adjusted his shirt and waistcoat. Leaving the ends of his linen cravat hanging down on his chest, Adrian waited for their pronouncement. They stood in a cluster by his desk, whispering among themselves and glancing at him as they consulted on his condition.
“Well, Doctors. What is your diagnosis?” He liked none of the expressions that met his gaze. The silence grew until it made his skin itch, and he spat out one of the curses he’d held in until that moment. “Bloody hell! Just get on with it.”
They looked to each other before facing him.
“Your Grace, we have nothing new to offer you regarding your condition,” Dr. Penworthy said. His bushy eyebrows twitched, giving him a vaguely squirrel-like appearance.
“But it has worsened?” Adrian prepared himself for the worst.
“It has, Your Grace, but not so much that we are overly concerned by the changes you presented.” Dr. Lloyd pulled out a small notebook and nodded at the desk. “An adjustment or two to the tonics you are using should be just the thing to deal with the symptoms.”
Adrian stepped aside and allowed Dr. Lloyd to sit in his chair and write out instructions to the apothecary. Although Drs. Penworthy and Wilkins exchanged glances again, neither had any other recommendations and allowed Dr. Lloyd to speak for them.
“Your Grace, do not let these changes affect you so much. We know that a nervous personality will exacerbate your lung condition.” All three nodded in agreement and Adrian scowled in response at each of them individually. Dr. Lloyd held out the paper to him with the scrawled instructions. “Take the waters a few times this summer and you will feel like a new man.”
Closing his eyes for a moment, Adrian fought for control over his frustration. No need to give the impression that he had the nervous personality they’d spoken of. No need to let on that he would like to strangle them all. Anger pulsed within him, alive, potent and growing. With an astuteness that surprised him, the three older men met his gaze directly. They knew how helpless he felt in the face of his condition. And helpless was not how a man wanted to feel.
“We will see ourselves out, Your Grace,” Dr. Wilkins said softly. “We are at your service if the need arises.”
Adrian accepted their bows and watched wordlessly as they opened the door and left. Realizing that he was crumbling the paper in his fist, he smoothed it open and tossed it on his desk. Walking to the other end of his study, he looked out the window at the bright, clear day before him. Dropping into the high-backed chair near the window, he tried to release the tension that spiraled inside him. They were correct about that—allowing the anger and frustration free rein did increase the number and severity of the attacks.
Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes again and listened to the sounds outside his house. The clip-clop of horses. The rustling of the branches of the trees in the spring breeze. The gentle calls of birds. The doctors’ voices.
The doctors’ voices?
Adrian got to his feet and positioned himself next to the open window where he could see and not be seen. The three doctors stood a few yards from him and, though they lowered their voices in a discreet fashion, he heard their every word.
“A terrible pity, really.” Lloyd?
“And nothing to be done?” That was certainly Wilkins. Adrian shifted to hear better. Who were they discussing?
“And in the prime of his life. Sad case.” He could almost picture Penworthy’s eyebrows twitching as he spoke.
“Shouldn’t he be told? I do worry about that,” Lloyd admitted in a fretful voice. “There are preparations to be made, arrangements to be handled, and so many rely on his oversight and condescension.”
An icy shiver slid down Adrian’s back and he straightened away from the aperture. Beads of sweat gathered on his own brow and trickled down his face and neck. The room had not grown hotter. Fear, plain and clear, caused his body to react to the horrible news, a sense of foreboding that grew within him.
It could not be….
It simply could not be…him.
“With his titles and lands, all the crucial details are already handled.” Penworthy continued, “A man with his status and responsibilities, and especially one with no heirs-of-his-body, has everything in order at all times. No, I think it best not to reveal the direness of his true situation.”
There was a pause, as though they were considering Penworthy’s recommendation to keep him unadvised of his perilous condition.
His condition?
He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, for he must be hearing their words incorrectly. They had just assured him to his face that he was only a slight bit worse. Change his decoctions. Take the waters. They’d not warned him of his impending death.
“How long, do you think?” Wilkins asked. “Such a marked deterioration cannot be a good sign.”
