Dusk With a Dangerous Duke (25 page)

“You were shot?”

“Not really,” he said, smiling down at her. “The bastard missed.”

“Hunter?”

Grace recognized Frost’s voice. Relieved he was unharmed, she struggled to sit up, but Hunter held her in place.

“I have Grace. Where is Regan?” Hunter called out.

“With Dare. They were near the coach when all of us heard the weapon discharge.”

Grace heard the earl’s footfalls as he approached them. She had to peer over her husband’s shoulder to get a glimpse of the man. He had a pistol in his hand. “The coachman and I searched the surrounding area. Whoever it was, he appears to have scurried off like a rat. A startled hunter, you think?”

Hunter rolled off her, giving her a chance to catch her breath.

“He has been shot,” she said, earning an inscrutable look from her husband.

“Shot?” Frost said, crouching down beside them, his brow furrowed with concern. “How bad is it?”

Hunter winced at his friend’s touch. “The bullet grazed my shoulder when I took a step toward—”

His implication was obvious.

“Me?” she squeaked. “Are you suggesting that someone was shooting at me?”

His fierce expression eased. “Not at all. It was likely a hunter who was unaware that we were on his land.”

“Aye, a hunter,” Frost said, supporting his friend.

Grace began to shiver. One thing was certain. Neither man could lie very well.

Hunter believed her uncle was behind their mishap.

Chapter Twenty-five

A week later, after their adventurous journey back to London, Hunter and Grace were the guests of honor at the Sainthills’ residence. There had been several balls held in their honor since their return. London society was thrilled that another Lord of Vice had succumbed to love, and everyone wanted to be introduced to the new Duchess of Huntsley.

The
ton
adored her.

Grace was equally flattered and overwhelmed by all of the attention. Hunter tried to assure her that he did not care what those fawning sycophants thought of their marriage, but his attempts to ease her fears only seemed to put more distance between them.

His duchess might be heralded as the darling of polite society, but he was a dismal failure as a husband. A part of him wanted to blame Strangham, but it had taken him days before he could acknowledge the truth staring him in the face. Hunter had taken the steps to ensure that Grace was bound to him legally. He had overlooked something more important—her heart.

Grace was not in love with him.

Nor had she forgiven him for his callous abandonment and disregard for her tender feelings.

Hunter recognized the signs. Over the years, he had bedded too many ladies who were unhappy with their lives. They had turned to him to briefly assuage the emptiness, and he had been content to provide the brief amusement that they craved.

He had not loved any of them. Even his feelings for Portia paled in comparison with what he felt for Grace.

Hunter had fallen in love.

He could almost hate her for it.

Saint placed a companionable arm around Hunter. “How is the shoulder?”

“Healing, or else I would be howling in pain. Your fingers are digging into the wound.”

He grinned at his friend’s hasty withdrawal.

“My apologies,” Saint said, shaking his head. “I can’t decide if you are extremely lucky or courting misfortune. Christ, Hunter, that hunter could have put a hole in your skull.”

Hunter raised his glass of wine. “Since I’d like to keep my head in one piece, I am viewing myself as very fortunate.” The two men clicked their glasses together. “What gives me nightmares is Grace. She could have been struck down.”

If the shooting had been deliberate, she could have been the man’s target instead of some meandering deer. Since his return, he had hired a Bow Street Runner to look into Strangham’s whereabouts. The duke had not returned to London, or so it appeared. Hunter wanted to know where to find the man, and ask him a few questions.

He was not particular on how he obtained his answers, either.

As if sensing his dark thoughts, Grace glanced in his direction. She was seated between Catherine and Isabel. All of the Lords of Vice were in attendance, including their wives. Together they were the family both he and Grace had been denied because of tragedy. As he observed her laugh at something Reign said, his heart ached. He should have invited her into his life years ago.

“Come.”

Hunter blinked. He and Saint had separated themselves from the others, choosing to observe rather than participate. “Where are we going?”

“To find something stronger in my library,” Saint said, leaving the decision for Hunter to remain or follow in his hands.

He decided to join his friend.

Grace was surrounded by his friends. She would not miss him for a few minutes if he and Saint lingered downstairs.

Saint was pouring brandy into the glasses when he entered the library. “There you are. I wondered if you might spare me.”

Confused, Hunter asked, “Spare you from what precisely?”

Saint rubbed his neck as if it pained him. “I lost the draw, and have been elected to speak to you privately.”

Well, this was news.

“About what?”

“Your marriage,” he said bluntly. “Or should I say, your marriage in name only to Grace.”

“Christ, who told you?” Hunter demanded.

“Does it matter?” Saint countered. “Never mind who told me. You already gave yourself away with your response.”

He swallowed the brandy, savoring the burn as the liquid coursed down his throat. The action prevented him from saying something he would likely regret.

“It is not my place to pry into your private life.”

“But you intend to do it anyway” was Hunter’s dry reply.

“Look, I am as uncomfortable as you are, but you have us concerned,” Saint replied, his voice infused with love and sincerity that it was difficult to be angry with his interference. “Strangham is missing. Your cousin has been moping about London since the news of your elopement. Do you want to be responsible for cheering him up?”

“Hell, no,” Hunter protested. “I had hoped he had given up by now.”

“He hasn’t,” Saint informed him. “If he learns your marriage has not been consummated and Grace is still angry enough at you to demand an annulment … well, my friend, then you have a problem.”

Hunter took another sip and leaned against the edge of the desk. “It is complicated.”

“Is it, uh, physical?”

It took a moment for Hunter to figure out what Saint was talking about. “No!” he said harshly. “I do not require any special treatments for my condition if that’s what you are asking.”

Oh, hell, maybe he should find Grace and just leave before this conversation became any more awkward.

“Then is it Grace?” Saint asked tentatively. He sensed he was treading on uncertain territory. “Has she barred you from her bedchamber?”

Hunter thought of their wedding night. Grace had been naked and willing after a little coaxing from him. He ached for her each night, but he wanted to give her time to accept the marriage he had tricked and bullied her into accepting.

“I can’t do this, Saint.” Hunter shook his head. “You won’t understand. I love her and I don’t…” He trailed off as he noted his friend’s slack-jawed expression. “Forget it.”

“I don’t believe it. You have fallen in love with Grace.”

How could he deny it?

“Yes,” Hunter said, feeling liberated by his confession. “It’s either love or madness. Personally, I was leaning toward madness.”

Saint laughed. “I am intimately familiar with your internal struggle, my friend. For six years, you and the others watched me as I battled myself and Catherine. Neither one of us wanted to fall in love.”

“Do you have any regrets?”

“No,” Saint said without any hesitation. “What about you?”

Hunter wearily sighed. “I have nineteen of them.”

“Do you want some advice?”

He could not believe he was willing to listen to Saint as he lectured him on the subject of love. “Not particularly, but I have a feeling you are planning to offer it anyway.”

“Forget about your mistakes. Bed your duchess.”

“To fulfill the terms of the contract,” Hunter said, cursing his grandmother for meddling beyond the grave. “Because that is exactly what Grace will believe if I bed her.”

“The marriage was set up to protect her from Strangham,” Saint reminded him. “Honor your commitment to her by giving her your body.”

“What if I wish to offer her more?”

“Then give yourself and Grace a chance to figure out what this marriage could mean to both of you. Your self-imposed celibacy is admirable, but you are denying your nature. Do all of us a favor and bed your wife. Trust me, the rest has a way of working itself out.”

*   *   *

Hours later, Grace sat at her dressing table brushing her hair. The maid had already undressed her and taken down her hair. Dressed in her white nightgown, she looked virginal. It did not escape her notice that she was a married virgin, something she had never expected when she was married to a Lord of Vice.

Perhaps even a notorious rake had his limits, she thought darkly.

She was married to a gentleman who could not stomach bedding her. Any gentle overtures had been politely rebuffed, she assumed for the sake of appearances; Hunter came to her bedchamber each evening. He carried her to bed, held her in his arms, and kissed her sweetly on the lips as if she were something to be treasured.

Some nights he remained and she slept contently in his embrace. In the morning, when she awoke he was gone. Then there were the nights she reached for him, silently entreating him to truly make her his wife. Those were the nights she had learned to loathe. Instead of accepting her invitation, he made some pathetic excuse to leave her. She spent those nights crying herself to sleep.

In a moment of weakness, she had confessed her frustrations to Regan. The marchioness had held her while she had sobbed, and then ordered her to dry her tears. They had spent the next few hours conspiring on ways to break through Hunter’s resistance.

Nothing had worked.

There was a familiar knock at the door.

Hunter. He had decided to come to her after all.

“You may enter,” she called out, though her invitation was unnecessary. Her husband came and went from her life as he pleased.

“I trust you had a good evening at the Sainthills?” Grace politely asked, noting her husband had retired for the evening and wore his favorite blue silk dressing gown.

“I did. Catherine is quite inventive when it comes to games.” He kissed her on the cheek. “The lady never disappoints her guests.”

Gently he removed the brush from her hand, and began sliding it through her hair. She had worked through all the knots, so the brush glided effortlessly through her tresses. It surprised her that he enjoyed the menial task, but he seemed fascinated with her hair.

“You and Saint vanished for an hour,” she said, already regretting that she had called attention to his disappearance.

“Hmm.”

When he did not elaborate, she pressed, “Where did you go?”

“The library. The Sainthills stock an excellent wine, but I prefer brandy. Saint invited me downstairs to share a glass or two.”

“Ah, I see.” She did not know what else to say. Each day, the distance between them expanded. Perhaps her uncle had been correct, after all. Now that Hunter had laid claim to her fortune, he had little use for her, except to beget his heir.

Even in this she was a failure.

Her lower lip traitorously quivered. She bit her lip to hide her misery from her husband.

Hunter placed the brush on the dressing table beside the matching comb of ivory and silver. “The hour is late, Duchess. Come to bed.”

Grace rose from the small bench and placed her hand in his. He escorted her to the bed as if they were preparing to dance. She wondered what he would do if she curtsied before him.

“Remove your nightgown.”

The command was so unexpected, she just gaped at him.

Instead of asking her again, Hunter grabbed the hem and pulled it over her head. He let the garment drop at his feet.

“What are you about, husband?”

He offered her a slight knowing smile. It was the one that used to annoy her when she first met him.

“A new game I wish to play.”

He shrugged out of his dressing gown. The silk caressed his body as it slipped to the floor. Gloriously naked, there was no concealing the fact that he was fully aroused. His manhood jutted proudly between his legs.

Grace moistened her lips with her tongue.

“What do you call this game?”

“It doesn’t have a name,” he confessed rather sheepishly. “I am making it up as I go along. Perhaps you can assist me in giving it a proper name.”

He swept her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. Without any clothing to shield his gaze, her first inclination was to cover her breasts.

However, the few steps it took to carry her to the bed prevented her from recovering her modesty. Hunter placed her on the bed. She reached for the sheet, but he stopped her.

“Indulge me, Duchess. I have often thought of our wedding night and wondered if it were all a dream.”

Had Regan told Hunter of her longings? No, she could not imagine the marchioness breaking her oath. However, something in her husband’s demeanor had changed.

He gave her a gentle push to encourage her to lie on her back. His hands slid from her shoulders and down over her breasts. His thumbs stroked her nipples until they hardened and ached. Hunter was far from finished. He leaned over her, his thick arousal brushing her knee.

“Have I mentioned how torturous it’s been each night to hold you?” he asked, his hungry gaze lingering on her nipples.

“N—no,” she stammered, fighting back the urge to cry.

Her tears were not of sorrow, but of joy.

Hunter had decided not to deny either one of them any longer.

“Each night I conjure your naked form in my mind. In meticulous detail, I have orchestrated each tantalizing stroke with my hands, my tongue and lips, and my cock. It pleases me that your beauty exceeds the limits of my imagination.”