Lord Ruin by Carolyn Jewel

footmen in powdered wigs, green frockcoats and knee breeches bowed at either side of the entrance. Above their heads loomed the lintel and the stone-carved crest of the ducal title. A butler as distinguished as he was severe inclined his head in a respectful bow. Cynssyr released her hand to peel off his gloves. She tried to keep her eyes off a monstrous stuffed tiger positioned so its snarling, glassy-eyed glare confronted anyone entering the house.
    Her knees shook, they actually shook because any moment, any moment at all, someone would declare her a fraud. She was no duchess. But the footmen stood at military attention, eyes forward, necks stiff. If they had such thoughts, Anne couldn’t tell. She didn’t dare move from Cynssyr’s side. His gaze shifted from his hands to her with a small sideways glance. The corner of his mouth curved just so. A flare of heat danced in the green eyes, unmistakable and intensely hot. When she looked away from him because if she didn’t she wouldn’t be able to breathe, she caught the butler staring. The man had no expression whatever, but he was staring. He was shocked by her, she felt, because she was not the beautiful princess they had been expecting of Cynssyr.
    “Merchant.” Ruan nodded as he led Anne over the threshold. Merchant, he saw, had been knocked back on his heels by the look he’d just given Anne. He’d been with the family for years, and Ruan was expert at reading his shades of expression. A layer of mist covered the coat and hat he handed to his stiffly standing butler.
    “Castlereagh sent several messages.” He deftly caught the gloves Ruan tossed him. “All urgent, your grace. There are two from Lord Eldon and one from Norfolk.”
    “No others?”
    “None important, your grace. Lord Buckley sent a case of champagne.”
    “A good vintage, I trust.”
    “An excellent one.”
    “Tell Hickenson I will see him first thing tomorrow. Put the knocker on the door, but we are not at home tonight.”
    “Yes, sir.” Merchant edged toward Anne, effortlessly positioning himself to take her pelisse. She slipped free of the garment and took several steps ahead.
    Ruan spent a long moment appreciating the sight. The woman walked as sensuously as she smiled. He couldn’t help thinking of her hips moving to meet his. Christ, he fairly itched to have his hands on her intimate places, the insides of her thighs, that lovely, ravishing backside. How had he gone a month without that? Since the end of the war, he’d not lasted a week without making love, and now he’d gone an entire month. Even after indulging himself at Satterfield, he felt eager as ever for his wife’s bed.
    Merchant cleared his throat. “May I offer the duchess felicitations on your marriage?”
    “You may, thank you,” Ruan said.
    “Madam, your grace, best wishes for your future happiness.”
    “Thank you, Merchant.” Her fawn gown did no great service to her appearance, Ruan thought. Recent developments had taken their toll on her appetite and the dress hung limply on her shoulders. He knew she must feel much like she looked: tired, slightly crumpled, and glad to be done with the traveling. The journey to London had exhausted her, that was clear from her shadowed eyes and her pale, pale skin. She’d slept like the dead until he’d awakened her.
    Merchant bowed, his face devoid of emotion. And yet, Ruan thought as he watched Anne, she possessed an air of serenity that must impress his butler, who considered composure among the highest of accomplishments. The three then walked forward into the great hall in which upwards of a hundred servants waited to meet their new mistress. Merchant began the introductions.
    Anne was glad of Cynssyr’s presence. The gathered servants looked a stern bunch, wary and no doubt wondering just what sort of mistress the duke had brought home to them. “I am glad to meet you,” she said when the introductions were over. She raised her voice so the kitchen maids and