Awakening His Duchess (26 page)

If he showed her his back, she’d probably want to talk about
the whippings he’d endured. It had taken a lot of lashes before he accepted his
role as a meaningless drone whose sole purpose was to bring in the sugar cane.

Her eyes flashed in the stream of moonlight covering the
bed. “What is this? Does your father tell you there must be more heirs? Is this
all it is for?”

Beau hadn’t been thinking about siring children, but if that
was what she wanted to believe. He wished he believed it. “Of course.”

With an anguished cry she came at him, all fury and flailing
fists.

He grabbed her arms and flipped her on her back, using his
weight to control her. The fight would go out of her sooner or later, although
the first time generally took the longest. “What my father said is that you are
biddable and will do as you’re told, which only proves how completely you’ve pulled
the wool over his eyes.”

“Why do you do this to me?” She bucked underneath him.

If this was biddable, the word had taken on a new meaning in
his ten-year absence. “You are my wife whether I like it or you like it.”

Her body shifting against his, all softness and warm scent
of woman, made his thoughts explode. He tucked his head into her shoulder,
waiting for her to realize the futility of struggling against a man who
outweighed her by five stones. Then he could get off her and get away before he
repeated the mistake of wanting her.

“I do not want more children.” She wrestled her arm away and
boxed him in the ear. “I cannot. I cannot. I do not want more duty.”

He pinned her arms above her head. “Damn it, Yvette, stop
struggling before I hurt you.”

She was twisting beneath him, her breasts rubbing his chest,
her hips sliding and pushing against his. He seriously doubted she meant it as
seduction, but he hardened all the same. The fires of lust he thought slaked
flared to life again. Damn, what was wrong with him?

“I cannot bear it. If I lose another baby it will tear me
apart.”

His chest jolted. He reared back and looked down on her.
“You’re not going to lose a baby.”

If he should be so lucky as to be able to plant one in her
belly, this was England, not a God forsaken isle rife with tropical diseases
and the desperation of the oppressed. There wouldn’t be yellow fever or a
bloody revolution to kill a child prematurely.

“I cannot. I will not survive another person I love being
ripped from my heart.” Her dark eyes glistened in the moonlight through her
tangled dark curls. “My father must have ordered this awful vodou thing done to
you. My mother must have known. And you—you would destroy my memories of you. I
believed you loved me.”

“I thought I did,” he muttered.

Her struggles stopped and she stared up at him.

“Before,” he added just in case there was any confusion. But
back then he hadn’t a clue who she really was. He didn’t love her now, wouldn’t
love her now. His chest tightened.

She twisted her face to the side as if she didn’t want to
look upon him. Her voice dropped to a quivering whisper. “I do not want to feel
anymore. It hurts too much.”

Her chest rose and fell against his as he stared down at
her. He risked brushing the curls from her face just to see her. His breath
caught at the softness of her untamable hair, the velvet of her silken skin.

A part of him measured her, searching for the lies in what
she said, but he didn’t find any duplicity. Her repudiation this afternoon of
what he’d believed for years didn’t ring so off key now either. Only he didn’t
want to think about it, didn’t want to think how much she had suffered too.

He’d only known of Etienne for a short space, but already
the thought of losing him felt like more than he could bear. So he understood
her better than he wanted to. Still he didn’t want to think that both of them
had needed to shut down all thought and feeling to exist.

God, he knew how much it hurt to believe someone he loved
had betrayed him. He’d thought for so long that she had.

“Don’t think about it,” he said gruffly, but he knew it
wasn’t as simple as that.

The urge to comfort her niggled at him. He didn’t want to
feel anything for her, or at least nothing beyond the lust that pulsed through
his veins. Letting go of what he’d believed for the last near decade was too
monumental a shift to do in the middle of the night when he was too overwhelmed
with desire to think straight.

On a physical plane there was heat between them. He didn’t
want to think why or think about his future or past with this woman and whether
he could ever trust her. He just wanted the mindlessness of release. Although
her bunched nightgown was between them, he shifted his hips, thrusting against
her.

She stiffened with a gasp. “Beau.”

“Yes or no, Yvette,” he growled.

Her eyes went flat and then she bit her lip. Her body went
soft underneath his and he’d swear she was holding her breath. Her lashes came
down hiding the bleak look.

Of all the responses he anticipated this was not what he
expected and it clawed him raw inside. Did it mean so much to her that he loved
her? Or did she only need him to love her so she could manipulate him and
destroy him again?

Experimentally he slid his hands up her arms and clasped her
hands, no entwining of fingers, but palm to palm. He lowered his weight onto
her and relished her softness underneath him. Her fingers closed around his
hands, but she didn’t grip fiercely as she had during the throes of passion.

She turned her head away exposing the long white column of
her neck.

He pressed his lips to her skin tasting the faint salty
sweetness that was Yvette. He might be kissing her, but it wasn’t on the lips,
and he was only doing so to evoke a response in her.

Her pulse leapt under the brush of his lips, yet there was a
wary waiting in her that felt out of place with the yielding softness of her
body. He lifted his head and looked down on her. She was so achingly lovely it
took his breath away and for a second he hovered on a knife’s edge of wanting to
give her what she wanted, to press his lips against hers, taste her moans,
allow her under his skin. Instead he asked again, “Yes or no?”

Her eyes blinked open and she stared at him with her brow
knit and a question parting her lips. It would be so easy to kiss her. She
would yield. He just wanted her to admit she wanted the sex, she’d liked it,
but she shook her head just the tiniest bit as her eyes washed with pain. Her
dark eyes were so expressive. And the moonlight washing across the bed revealed
a deep pain he didn’t want to acknowledge.

“Did you not hear me? I do not want another baby. I do not
want this.”

Her husky words ripped into him like the rawhide of a whip.
Her chest rose and fell under his, tormenting him. Perhaps she couldn’t bear
him face to face. But he had no need to be a glutton. Once should have been
enough.

And he should be thankful she was stopping him before his
heart overruled his head.

“Very well.” He pushed off her and slid off the bed.

Resisting the urge to tell her to look away, he retrieved
his dressing gown and thrust his arms into the sleeves. It was better he left
her and the unbidden urges to wrap her tight in his arms and never let go. No,
he told himself. He only wanted release, but even he didn’t believe that.

All he knew was that it was better that he walked away now
before she snared him in her web again.

 
*~*~*

Yvette stared at the canopy of her bed, her fist clenched in
sheets still warm from Beau. Her heart thumped madly in her chest. A wife was
supposed to be cherished. He should not treat her like she was no more than a
paid doxy. Why was he being such an idiot?

Of course a man had the right to use his wife. Henri had
never allowed her a refusal. Even when it was too soon after the births of her
babies, he’d insisted she submit. He might ply her with kisses and caresses
until she acquiesced, although he hadn’t always been that considerate. When he
was impatient he simply overpowered her.

If she fought, he held her down and then in the aftermath Henri
would tell her it was her fault if he’d been rough and hurt her. A man needed
release or his humors would back up. As a wife it was her obligation to yield
to her husband and his right as master to use her body at will.

Apparently Beau followed a different set of rules.

It seemed he truly meant to honor her wishes. He asked
before proceeding both times and accepted her refusal. He might hate her, but
he wouldn’t force her to bend to his needs. Or did he hate her? Would a man who
hated his wife be concerned about whether or not she wanted congress when he
wanted children?

She was so tired of feeling nothing but hurt and sadness,
but he had come to her room to comfort her. She didn’t think he’d come just to
have relations. No, he would have come to her bed before her nightmare if his
sole intent were procreation. Perhaps he was trying to bridge the divide
between them.

His words were harsh, but his actions had been for the most
part tender. Perhaps he was waiting for her to show him signs of acceptance or
encouragement.

She might have misunderstood him. When he’d held her pinned
down, his demand for a yes or a no seemed a torment to make her acknowledge her
love and desire for him while he could freely take without caring, without
tenderness, without connection. But if he only was trying to find out if she
was willing, he must want her to desire him. He must care that much at least.

A tendril of warmth curled low in her.

Perhaps they could find their way back to the love they once
shared. Her heart tripped, and she felt lighter than she’d felt in ages.

So why wouldn’t he let her touch him?

She shook off the doubt. If they were to try to salvage this
marriage, he had made the first move. After his harsh reception of her upon his
arrival, he might not know how to smooth the way. He might be afraid he’d
destroyed any tender feelings she had. The hope that they might reconnect
blossomed in her chest.

In his room, which was so close but yet so far away, he
banged the poker against the andirons. The thud of a log and the crackle of a
flaring fire was punctuated by Beau’s cough.

Her chest squeezed. Did he need her? She tried to dismiss
the idea, but it didn’t matter that she didn’t want to worry—she did anyway.
Pushing back the covers she slid out of bed. Perhaps if she reached out to him,
he would see she was willing to mend the rift in their marriage.

As she broached the archway to his bedroom, he coughed into
his arm then reached for the water glass beside his bed.

She hesitated as he swallowed, his back to her. His coughing
was perhaps nothing, a bit of dust raised from the ashes, not necessarily a
precursor to his lungs seizing. Perhaps she should return to her room. If she
continued into his room she’d have to tell him she’d changed her mind and
appear wanton and needy.

Her heart thudding with uncertainty, she took a step back to
hide in the darkness.

He set the glass down with a thump, unbelted the dressing
gown and shifted it off his shoulders.

The tangled mass of raised red scars on his back froze her
to the spot. She gasped.

He whirled, pulling the dressing gown back over his
shoulders. “What do you want?”

“You were coughing.” Her hand went to the bare skin at her
tightening throat.

His gaze lowered to the opening of her nightgown and his
nostrils flared even as he belted the dressing gown covering his semi-arousal.
He must still want her even though his growl was less than welcoming. An
answering heat rose in her.

“I-I wanted to be certain you did not require more of my
herbs.” She made a half-hearted gesture toward her room where her medicinal
case was stored.

His blue eyes were intense as he glowered at her in the
half-light of the fire.

He turned his head and lowered his gaze. “Go to bed, Yvette.
I don’t want to think anymore tonight.”

She was strangely reluctant to leave. Were the scars the
reason he wouldn’t let her touch him?

He sank down onto the edge of his bed but made no further
move.

Her feet seemed glued to the floor and she couldn’t step
forward nor could she leave. They were at an impasse, or were they? She didn’t
understand why she still stood there. She wanted to go back to her somnambulant
existence, but a wife worried about her family, her child, her husband. “These
scars are from your time as a slave?”

He stared at the wall, but his eyes were unfocused as if he
looked into the past. “Even drugged I was not as compliant as they would have
wished.”

Beau would have managed defiance when others would have
broken. Admitting he was wrong likely would be hard for him, too. Hoping to
ease his way, she smiled and took a tentative step forward. “I imagine
eventually you bend but you never break.”

His gaze shot to hers as he gave a tiny negative shake of
his head. His expression went flat. He turned and yanked down the covers on his
bed.

It was as if she’d been dismissed. His scars did not make
her think less of him. To withstand so much only proved how strong and
determined he was. He had been through much and survived. There had to be some
common ground between them. Perhaps he misunderstood her, too.

Wanting to reassure him, she took a tiny step forward.
“Perhaps I should look upon them and determine they have healed properly.”

He cast an incredulous look over his shoulder. “So you can
gloat some more?”

“Gloat?” Shock made her jerk to a stop. This is what he
thought she did? “I have no wish to gloat.”

He rolled his eyes.

“I take no pleasure—”

“For God’s sake, go to bed, Yvette. I do not know how you
managed to convince my father you are a dutiful creature.”