Page 13 of My Demanding Duke

As enticing a dream as that was, it was overshadowed by the thought that she would also wake up each morning next to the Duke of Falconbridge.

“Tomorrow night, you will be sleeping under my roof.”

Anna shivered a little, as she recalled the satisfaction with which the duke had spoken those words. He had not overtly implied it, but the dark glint in his eye and the cruel curl of his lip had suggested that not much sleep would be had.

Lady Limehouse, unable to read minds, interpreted her shiver as a sign of fatigue.

“My dear, you must rest,” she insisted, guiding Anna from her seat to a stand, “I will have a word with the servants and ensure that the house is in order tomorrow for the ceremony.”

“Yes, we wouldn’t want the duke pass comment on the dust in the parlour room,” Anna replied, dryly.

“We would not,” Lady Limehouse agreed, refusing to be baited by her sarcasm, “Nor shall he - or his mama, for that matter - find you wanting. Your dress will be fresh, your trousseau packed, and we will offer the guests some form of refreshment.”

The duke was hardly what Anna would class as a “guest”, given that he had forced his way into her life, but she kept this thought to herself.

“I will have one of my footmen scour the local inns for your father,” the viscountess continued, as she led Anna toward the hall, “It is only right that he is here too.”

Again, Anna kept her thoughts on this matter to herself. There was plenty that she wished to say about her father, but all of the fight had left her body and she felt almost weak.

“The servants,” she whispered to the viscountess, as they reached the door, “Can you get word to the duke that I shall not agree to anything, unless I can bring them with me?”

“Of course,” Lady Limehouse assured her, “Leave everything to me.”

Though it went against her nature, having been the person who for so long fixed every problem that arose in the household, Anna ceded to Lady Limehouse’s command. There was a comfort in having someone else take care of matters, she conceded, as she walked past a pale-faced Josie to the staircase.

She floated up the runners in a daze to her bed chamber, where she undressed and donned her nightrail. To her surprise, the moment she crawled into bed she had to struggle against the heaviness of her eyelids.

Perhaps it is the shock, she thought, as she drifted off to sleep. A deep sleep, which was filled with images of the Duke of Falconbridge, some frightening, some strange, and some which thrilled her to her deepest core.

The closest Anna had ever come to marriage in her short life, was a few years prior when a solicitor from Whitby had taken to calling on her, after they had shared a dance at the local assembly rooms. The solicitor’s attentions had been fleeting, coming to an abrupt end at the same time that Lord Mosley lost one-hundred acres of land to a farmer whilst playing cards in the local inn.

Although Anna was initially hurt, she did not begrudge Mr William Dalton for deciding that taking her hand in marriage might prove an act more expensive than its worth. If she were a man, she would probably have made the same choice to stay as far as possible from a profligate gambler like Lord Mosley.

As the experience with Mr Dalton took up the entirety of her romantic history, Anna had never bothered herself with daydreams of weddings or husbands. In fact, she had never once imagined what her wedding morning would look like, for it had seemed a fool’s errand to daydream about such things.

If she had imagined it however, she was certain that she might have imagined something happier than the morning she had spent.

From the moment she awoke, she had been haunted by the sound of the pendulum ticking in the longcase clock in the hallway, counting down her last hours of freedom. Josie had tried her best to keep up a constant stream of chatter, as she assisted Anna with her toilette. When the time came to dress, however, even Josie’s indefatigable cheer wavered.

“Nothing’s ever as bad as you imagine,” the lady’s maid assured, as she buttoned up the last of the pearl closings on the gown Anna was to wear.

Hardly the bracing words a bride expected on the morning of her wedding, Anna thought wryly, as she observed herself in the mirror.

The gown was a simple white, morning dress of white lace over a pink satin petticoat. The bodice was lightly embroidered with pearls and every time Anna caught sight of them, she thought of the old nursery rhyme.

“Marry in pearl, your life will be a whirl,” she said aloud to Josie, who clucked in response.

“Better than red,” the lady’s maid answered, as she set about pinning up Anna’s hair, “Marry in red, you’ll wish yourself dead.”

“Were there no crimson gowns amongst the pile to choose from?” Anna asked dryly, her words earning her a thwack from the hairbrush in Josie’s hand.

“Things aren’t that bad, Miss Anna,” Josie admonished, “His Grace seems intent on looking after you properly.”

As opposed to father, who did not look after her at all, Anna thought, finishing in her head that which Josie was too polite to say aloud.

“And he’s handsome,” Josie added wickedly, when she did not reply.

“If you like that sort of thing in a man.”

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