In that case, he had nobody to blame but himself.
He hadn’t played fair, with Olympia or with Ashmont.
He took out the messages he’d received from Ashmont. They were politely worded, as etiquette dictated. Ashmont had received and sent enough missives of this kind to write them without having to tax his mind about it, and even he wouldn’t stoop to rudeness, let alone abuse, in a letter of challenge.
It was one of the things a gentleman, even one of Their Dis-Graces, didn’t do. Like cheat at cards . . . or despoil his friend’s affianced bride.
With Blackwood wisely refusing to second either of them, Ripley had enlisted Lord Pershore, from whom he’d bought more than one fine horse, and whose discretion he could trust. He’d answered Ashmont’s letter of challenge with matching politeness.
The seconds had met and attempted to prevent the duel. As Ripley had expected, they failed. There was no other way to wipe away the public humiliation. No apology Ripley could honestly offer would suffice.
He was sorry he’d wronged his friend. He was sorry he’d cheated. He wasn’t sorry for taking Olympia away from Ashmont. Ripley would have been truly, irreparably sorry if he hadn’t.
The meeting having been set for six o’clock tomorrow morning, Ripley had arranged for the post chaise to take him and Pershore to the dueling ground. He’d contacted his medical man, who’d meet them there. Everything was in order.
Nothing remained but to write what might or might not be the only letter he ever wrote to his . . .
Wife.
He shook his head, to shake off the feelings threatening to overpower him.
He dipped the pen in the inkwell.
My dearest girl, he began.
In great London houses, the rooms on the ground and first floors were magnificent, made for show. Those on the upper stories tended to be far less so, since few but the family and servants saw them.
This wasn’t the case at Ripley House. Occupying nearly a full wing overlooking the extensive garden, the duchess’s apartments were as spacious and sumptuously furnished as the public rooms. Though the furnishings weren’t modern—some were ancient and valuable—all were in perfect order, clean and lovingly cared for.
Olympia had bathed and changed in comfort. Her maid, Jenkins, who’d come with her from Gonerby House, was in such a state of ecstasy that she came dangerously close to smiling.
Naturally Jenkins had assumed, as anybody would, that Olympia’s running away from her wedding would turn her into a social outcast. This would have left the lady’s maid to choose between remaining loyal to her mistress or looking out for her own future and finding another employer. If the family was in a scandal, so were the staff. Even the most loyal servants might find such a situation intolerable.
And that was one more in the long list of consequences Olympia hadn’t considered when she fled her first wedding.
Yet if she hadn’t fled, she wouldn’t be here in Ripley House, sitting at her dressing table, wondering what her husband had in store for her this night, and Jenkins wouldn’t be so happily fussing about her mistress’s hair and the precise arrangement of her dressing gown’s falling collar.
A deep masculine voice dispersed all thoughts of hair and bedtime attire.
“That will do, Jenkins,” Ripley said.
Face red, Jenkins set down the hairbrush and hurried out of the room.
The reason for the red face became apparent as Olympia turned away from the dressing table toward the door. Ripley wore a dressing gown with, by the looks of it, nothing underneath. His strong neck was bare, and the narrow V of the robe’s opening revealed golden skin bearing a fine dusting of dark hair. Her gaze slid down over the dressing gown. Embroidered dark green satin with a purple lining, it was as opulent as the rest of the house.
Her husband, clearly, liked his creature comforts. He would have fit in nicely with the pashas of the Turkish Empire. As he’d said, self-denial was not his favorite thing.
This was a man who loved luxury and self-indulgence and not playing by the rules.
She wondered which rules he planned to break this night.
A tremor went through her, but whether it was nervousness or anticipation she couldn’t say.
“I came in the nick of time,” he said. “Jenkins had nearly tamed your hair, and I like it untidy. The way it was when I dismantled your wedding veil. The first one, I mean.”
“Oh, Ripley.” She started to get up. She wanted to throw herself in his arms. She didn’t know why she felt so desperate to do it, but she did.
“No, stay a moment,” he said. “I want to spoil your hair a little . . . and then despoil other parts.”
She sat again, and stared into the looking glass on the dressing table. She was still Olympia, the same unremarkable-looking lady she’d been a few days ago when she’d gazed into a mirror at her bridal splendor. But she wasn’t the same inside. She’d lived a lifetime in a few days. A lifetime with one man, she realized. Hours and hours, in the course of which she seemed to have fallen irretrievably in love.
He came to her, and untied the neat braid Jenkins had made. Then his long fingers went through her hair, loosening the plaits. She was aware of his hands in a way she hadn’t been aware of her maid’s. She was aware of his nearness and the warmth of his powerful body.
She wanted to turn away from the dressing table and make him pull her up into his arms.
She said, “It’s dawned on me that you and I have spent more time together than most couples do before they’re wed. And so we must know each other rather better than most.”
“I know you rather better than I ought to, on our wedding night,” he said. “But that’s my fault, for being so impatient. You ought to have had a proper introduction. I’ll give it to you belatedly.”
“We aren’t proper people,” she said. “Why should our wedding night be like other couples’? And since when do you care about oughts?”
“Since you.” He moved to kneel beside her.
He took her left hand and looked at it for a moment, where her wedding ring seemed to glow on her finger. He kissed the back of her hand. “Your wedding night ought to be special. Perfect.”
“That is exceedingly kind and thoughtful of you,” she said. “But bear in mind, if it isn’t perfect, you can try again. And again. Practice, you know.”
He laughed, but she caught an odd note in his laughter that made her look up quickly, into his eyes. They were shuttered. All she saw was the sleepy wolf.