Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(9)

She was nothing if not courageous.

Lady Jordan made her vows in a cool, clear voice.

He responded in turn, his voice as ever emotionless and firm.

The vicar pronounced them man and wife and closed his black book, looking up. His eyes strayed to Raphael’s injured shoulder and widened.

Raphael realized that his wound had bled through the cloth.

He nodded to Ubertino. “Pay him well.”

The Corsican bowed, took a heavy purse from his pocket, and handed it to the vicar.

The Englishman’s eyes widened. “Your Grace, this is much more than I am accustomed to receiving for a simple wedding.”

“My duchess and I are most appreciative of your inconvenience,” Raphael replied silkily. “And, of course, I will expect the utmost discretion from you on this matter, Mr. Webberly.”

Any fear that he’d been too subtle was laid to rest when the vicar paled. “I … I … Yes, naturally, Your Grace.”

“Good. I do so value my privacy. I would not enjoy being the subject of gossip.”

The man gulped and backed a step, clutching his book and purse to his chest.

Raphael nodded to him. “My men will see you safely home.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” The vicar hurried from the room with Valente and Bardo close behind.

Raphael sighed and let his head fall against the chair back.

Beside him his new duchess tsked. “You scared him half to death. Was that truly necessary?”

“If word reaches the Lords of Chaos that I am weakened, both our lives will be in danger. Therefore, yes, it most definitely was necessary.” With an effort he opened his eyes and glanced at her. There were shadows beneath her eyes, and her pale pink lips drooped. A smudge of dirt highlighted her left cheekbone, and he had the ridiculous urge to wipe it away. “I think now I will retire if you do not mind, madam.”

She knit delicate brows. “Not before the ball is removed from your shoulder.”

His eyelids were so very heavy. “I cannot think such argumentativeness is attractive in a wife.”

“Perhaps you should’ve thought of that earlier,” she retorted, but her tone was gentle.

“Humph.”

“Send your men for a surgeon.”

He opened his eyes wide in order to shoot her a glare. “You said you have experience with gunshot wounds.”

“Yes, but I’ve never actually removed a bullet.” Her face was drawn with fear, and yet he still detected a glow beneath her surface exhaustion.

He waved the objection aside. “I trust you and we have no other choice. If the Lords of Chaos find that I am wounded they will be like a pack of wolves on a lame ram. I won’t survive the night—and neither will you.”

He heard her huff, but her hand crept under his shoulder, urging him to rise. Then his men were there as well, a much stronger support. He could walk. He wouldn’t be carried, damn it. Not in his father’s house.

The stairs were tricky, the treads kept trying to trip him up, but they made it to the floor above. They trudged past the duke’s rooms, and finally arrived at the duchess’s rooms—the rooms that had once been his mother’s.

He lay down in his bed with gratitude that nearly overwhelmed his senses.

“I will need a knife and a pair of tweezers or tongs if you have them,” his wife said politely, almost apologetically.

“You trust this woman with a knife at your flesh, Your Excellency?” Ubertino growled in Corsican, even as Nicoletta trotted out of the room.

With effort Raphael opened his eyes and simply looked at his gathered servants, one by one, and said in English, “She is your mistress, your duchess, now. You will respect her. Do you understand?”

He heard his duchess draw in her breath.

There was a spattering of muttered agreement from his servants.

“I am not the one to whom you vow allegiance now,” he barked.

Ubertino jerked his head to his fellow servants and turned to his wide-eyed duchess. The Corsican bowed low and said, “Your Grace.”

She swallowed. “Thank you.”

When she turned back to Raphael she was frowning, her brows lowered over those blue-gray eyes, like thunderclouds over a Yorkshire moor sky. A fanciful thought.

He didn’t usually have fanciful thoughts.

Someone was unbuttoning his banyan.

He opened his eyes to see her, Lady Jordan, looking quite worried, with Nicoletta beside her. But that wasn’t right, was it? She was the Duchess of Dyemore now.

“Bring me my mother’s jewelry box,” he ordered the maidservant.

Nicoletta hurried out of the room.

The bandages were being tugged away from his wound. He gasped at a shard of pain.

“I’m sorry,” his wife whispered.

“Your Excellency.” He opened his eyes to see Nicoletta holding out the jewelry box. There seemed to be a halo about her head, and he wanted to chuckle. Nicoletta was too sharp tongued by far to be a saint, surely?

“Open it,” he said.

She took a key from a ring at her waist and inserted it into the lock, then opened the box and brought it close to him so that he could see the contents.

Raphael lifted his good hand—it felt uncommonly heavy—and stirred a finger through the jewels until he found the ring. His hand trembled as he lifted the ring from the box. “Lock it again and give the key ring to Her Excellency.”