She Tempts the Duke (25 page)

“I have no secrets.”

“Then let me see what he wrote.”

He studied her for a long moment, then handed her the letter. She scanned it quickly.

Brother,

I hope this letter finds you well and enjoying marital bliss. I found some excellent horseflesh in Hertfordshire that I purchased for you and your lovely bride as a wedding gift. It should arrive without much delay.

All is well at the estate in Shropshire. Tomorrow I head down to Wiltshire to check on things there. I am having difficulty comprehending why the Crown couldn’t have given our ancestors all of their property in one place. While I’ve enjoyed not being in London, I miss the sea. Don’t take offense if I raise anchor shortly after seeing to the tasks you asked me to.

The man watching and following Uncle reports that he rarely leaves the boarding house except to visit with his wife.

Rafe was well when I left London. He promised to watch over the residence. I’m not sure what to make of him. He seems to lead some sort of secretive life. Can only hope that in time he will trust us with it.

Give my best to Mary. Not a night goes by that I don’t wish you’d have let me marry her.

Tristan

She turned and stared at him. “Tristan wanted to marry me?” she asked.

“If I wasn’t willing.”

“Why didn’t you let him then?”

“Because I was willing.”

“I thought you married me because you had no alternative.”

“We should probably begin preparing for dinner,” he said, completely avoiding addressing her inquiry.

Wasn’t that interesting? He’d had a choice.

She could not imagine that Tristan had offered to marry her. Would she have been happier with him? Would he have taken her with him when he set sail or left her behind? Did it really matter? It was a bit of a revelation, though, to realize that Sebastian could have pawned her off on his brother. But he hadn’t.

Of course, he hadn’t, silly goose. If he was anything at all, he was a man who took responsibility for his actions. He kissed you in the garden. He felt obligated to marry you.

Only perhaps it was more.

Chapter 26

F
ollowing dinner, Mary sat curled in a chair in the library with her small rosewood secretary on her lap and jotted notes regarding tasks she needed to see to. The residence had a smaller library with a delicate desk in it that she assumed the former duchess had used, but she wanted to be near Sebastian. He worked at his desk, scouring through ledgers, making notations on a sheaf of paper beside him. So much needed to be done here that it was almost like starting over.

“Sebastian?”

“Hmmm?” He kept his attention on the books.

“I thought I might go to the village tomorrow and see about hiring some temporary help to assist the servants in readying the remainder of the manor. So much requires dusting, polishing, and scrubbing that I thought it would hurry things along.”

“Splendid notion,” he muttered distractedly.

“Then I thought I might go to Willow Hall. I know Father was planning to leave London shortly after we did. I wanted to see about luring away some of his servants.”

“Splendid notion.”

“His gardener, for example, has been training his son in the trade. I thought we could offer the young man a position here as our gardener.”

“Splendid notion.”

“I think we would need more than one but it would be a start.”

“Splendid notion.”

“Then I thought I might very well scamper through the fields without my clothing.”

“Splendid—”

He paused before giving her a pointed look. She smiled mischievously. “I wasn’t certain you were listening.”

He poured whiskey into a glass, then swirled it, watching her closely over the rim. “Feeling neglected?”

“A little.”

“If I spend most of the morning in bed, and a good part of the afternoon riding, I must catch up with business in the evenings.”

She drew a heart on her paper, blackened it in. “I know. It’s just that many couples, after they marry, take a wedding trip.”

“We did. We took a trip from London to here.”

She scowled at him, then realized he was not being deliberately obtuse. “No, they go somewhere that they can be alone.”

“We’re alone here.”

She bit back a growl. “Without responsibilities, so they can concentrate on each other.”

He leaned back in his chair, one corner of his mouth curving up ever so slightly. “Have an itch for me to take you again?”

She did, but not when he put it like that. She scoffed. “You’re impossible.”

He patted his thigh. “Come here. I can take you here.”

She set aside her secretary and rose. “That’s exactly what I desire. An uncomfortable tumble behind your desk.”

“It won’t be uncomfortable.”

“I’m going to take a bath.” She’d taken two steps—

“Mary?”

She stopped when everything inside her urged her to trudge on. His footsteps echoed toward her. They halted and his arms came around her, drawing her near. He kissed the back of her neck. “I need only a little while longer and I’ll come to your bed.”

“And
have
me?”

“Yes, unless you’d rather I not.”

At least he was giving her the choice. There was something to be said for that, she supposed. Not all men would. “I’d rather you make love to me.”

“All right,” he said quietly and touched his lips to her nape again.

“Say it,” she urged softly.

“I can’t.”

“Because you don’t love me?”

“No, because it’s too damned poetic and I loathe poetry.”

She turned in his arms. “Do you love me?”

“Do you me?”

She studied him as understanding dawned. “You can’t say the word. You can’t say love.”

“I care for you,” he said irritably. “You must know that.”

“Would you have asked for my hand in marriage if not for the scandal?”

“No, I’d have never subjected you to a life with me.”

“Why do you think a life with you would be so horrid?”

Moving away from her, he began to pace. “Because I know what I am. Harsh. Determined. Focused on one thing: Pembrook. You want poetry, and gentle words, and softness. There is no softness in my life. Except for the bed. And you in it makes it softer.” He stopped pacing and scowled at her. “Why the deuce are you smiling?”

“For someone who claims not to like poetry, you can be quite poetic. I’ll be waiting for you to come
have
me.”

She turned on her heel and marched from the room. For the life of her, she didn’t know why her spirits were suddenly lifted. Perhaps because while he may not say it, she knew that she did mean a great deal to him.

S
ebastian stepped into his wife’s bedchamber to find her still bathing. She’d not seen him enter because she was hidden behind a screen, a fire blazing on the other side of her casting her in silhouette. She obviously hadn’t heard the door because she was singing . . . no, humming . . . no, singing. She didn’t know all the words, he realized. She sung the ones she did, hummed the ones she didn’t.

“ ‘Be it ever so humble . . .’ ”

She had the voice of a lark at break of day. He glanced over to find her maid sitting in a nearby chair, staring at him, her embroidery abandoned on her lap. He placed his finger to his lips and, with a nod of his head toward the door, signaled for her to leave. She rose, dipped a quick curtsy, and quietly quit the room.

On bare feet, Sebastian padded over and carefully eased down to the edge of the foot of the bed. Mesmerized, he watched as Mary raised her arms. Through her humming, which was softer than her singing, he heard droplets dripping into the water, envisioned them rolling along her flesh, dampening it as they went. He’d considered having one of the rooms transformed into a bathing chamber, but he decided he much preferred the view offered by a bath before the fire. Strange how he found even her shadow alluring.

Perhaps part of it was because she didn’t realize she was being watched. He’d never realized that a voyeur lurked inside him, but it was having a jolly good time, appreciating everything before him.

He hated the thought that he might have denied her—no matter how unintentional—something she wanted: a wedding trip. He’d spent so much time away from Pembrook, from England, that it had never occurred to him not to hasten here as soon as he could. Had Fitzwilliam planned to take her somewhere? He despised the thought of that man giving her something that Sebastian hadn’t. He’d been so concerned with saving her reputation that he’d given no thoughts to her heart’s desires. She had some. That he knew. After she’d left the library he’d glanced at the paper she’d left on her secretary. It was a boring list of tasks to be done but sprinkled throughout were small hearts. Whimsical. She wanted love and, regretfully, he didn’t know if he could give it to her.

She lifted an elegant leg out of the water, pointed her toes toward the ceiling, and his mouth went dry as all previous thoughts scattered. Good Lord, she was limber. He could take her with her legs braced on his shoulders. He watched the sensuous movements as she skimmed her hands from heel to thigh. Perhaps even to hip. Or maybe she stopped someplace in between, a haven he was anticipating visiting once again.

He became aware of her no longer singing, simply humming a soft provocative tune that caused his breath to come in labored pants. Did she go through these rituals every time she bathed?

She dropped back her head, released a deep sigh. “Colleen, I’m ready to leave the bath.”

He swallowed hard. He was ready as well, but not to leave a bath—rather to leave his wife well and truly sated.

“Colleen? The towel? Don’t tarry. My husband will be here any moment and I wish to be prepared.”

If she were any more prepared,
he
might ignite. He came to his feet, wandered toward her, and snatched up a towel in passing. He came around the screen, and decided that in the flesh, she was exceedingly more delectable. With her eyes closed, she rested her head against the lip of the tub. All of her skin was dampened with dew. Her hair was piled in a haphazard manner on top of her head. Several strands had gained their freedom and they curled in wild abandon. Her limp hands draped over the sides. Her thighs were spread wide. The water lapped around her breasts, creating two lovely islands.

She moaned low, opened her eyes slowly—

Shrieking, she sank beneath the surface of the water until the islands were in danger of drowning. Pity.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Why the surprise? I told you that I was going to visit and I heard you tell your maid you were expecting me. At any moment.”

She scowled. “How long have you been in here?”

“When I entered you knew the words to the song, then you seemed to forget them.”

Horror crossed her features. “You heard me singing? Oh, dear God.”

“You have a lovely voice.”

“It’s atrocious. I sound like a warbler.”

“And here I likened you to a lark.”

“Why did you not let me know you were here?”

“I was rather enjoying the shadow show.”

She looked at the screen, then jerked her gaze to the fire, and he saw the reality of her situation dawn, as she muttered, “Entertaining silhouettes.”

“Extremely entertaining.”

She gave him an impish smile. “I think you’re rather enjoying yourself now.”

“I rather am, yes.”

“I might have to teach you a lesson about spying on me and withhold my favors.”

“I won’t allow it.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “And how, Your Grace, do you expect to carry out that threat?”

“I will kiss every inch of your skin until you are as close to falling to your knees with aching need as I am now.”

She grinned wickedly, and he thought he might burst. “I can see your aching need even with your trousers on. Hand me the towel that I might dry off and see to that need.”

“I want to dry you and then I intend to make you wet again.”

She gasped. “Such bawdy talk!”

“Bedchamber poetry.”

“And here you claimed earlier not to like poetry.” She studied him for a moment through half-lowered eyelids. Sultry wench made him feel as though he were the one unclothed. Her tongue appeared between her parted lips and captured an errant drop of water. Then she rose up out of the water like a brazen goddess, completely comfortable with her body, not a hint of shyness to be seen.

She would no doubt be the death of him.

She gave him a pouty look. “So carry out your promise, Your Grace. Dry me, then make me wet.”

M
ary wasn’t certain where she found the courage to be so bold. She only knew that once he’d confessed to being close to dropping to his knees that she’d felt powerful, in control of the situation, regardless of his threat not to allow her to withhold her favors. She knew he’d not force her.

As it was he feared she’d not welcome his touch. Strange. She’d always assumed it was the man who made the woman feel comfortable with what passed between them, but it was her husband who required the reassurance that she was not put off by his scars. She loved it when passion overcame him, and he forgot they existed. She wanted them not to matter. She wanted the scandal that had forced them to marry not to matter.

She wanted love between them, so deep and abiding, that nothing mattered beyond them.

The chill of the air caused her nipples to pearl and pucker. His gaze dropped to her chest, smoldered. She watched his throat work as he swallowed. Indeed, she held the power.

“I’m growing chilled, Your Grace.” She held out an arm and tried to present an innocent expression, a slight pouting of her lips.

She’d expected him to whip her out of the tub and dry her off quickly. Instead, he went down to one knee before her and draped the towel over his raised thigh. She lifted a foot and placed it on the perch he offered. He began at her toes and blotted the water slowly, gently, his attention focused on his task. Even though her hands were wet, she ran one through his hair. “I shall return the favor someday,” she said quietly.

“What favor is that?” he asked distractedly.

“Intrude upon your bath.”

“I did not intrude. I allowed you to enjoy it.”

“You enjoyed it as well.”

He lifted his gaze to her. “Immensely.”

He finished patting her leg, then indicated the other. He dried her with touches as gentle as any she’d ever known, as though he feared the cotton in the weave would scratch her skin if he did not take care. When he finished with her leg, he set her foot on the floor and stood, looming over her. His size had never frightened her. While she was tall for a woman, he was taller than most men.

He patted dry her face, her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. Then he took one in his mouth, suckled. Moaning, she craned back her head, stared at the ceiling with its intricate scrollwork.

“Turn around,” he ordered in a rough voice, and she realized that the task he’d set himself was as much torment for him as it was for her. Lovely torment.

She did as he bade, relished the cotton absorbing what little dampness remained. For a moment she did what she’d promised she’d never do: she thought of Fitzwilliam and realized that she could have never envisioned allowing him to take such liberties. She would have welcomed darkness accompanying their encounters. She couldn’t have been playful, teasing, or sensuous. What seemed so natural with Sebastian would not have seemed so with anyone else.

The towel skimmed along her skin as it cascaded to the floor and pooled at her feet. She felt a tug on her hair, heard the clink of a pin hitting the floor. Another tug, another clink. Three more followed before her hair tumbled around her shoulders.

Gathering it up with one hand he moved it aside and kissed her neck. “All dry,” he whispered.

“Hardly.” She was acutely aware of the dampness between her thighs.

He released a low laugh, slid his hand around her, and cupped her intimately. “Too easy.”

She sighed. “I can’t argue with the truth.”

“I adore how responsive you are,” he whispered, so low that she wondered if the words were more for him than her.

He swept her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. Only then did she realize that the light in the room came from the fireplace and much of it was blocked by the screen. The bed was mostly shadows as he laid her on it. He reached across her for the sash that held back the canopy drapes. She placed a hand on his shoulder. “No.”