Chapter Eight

Amelia was beginning to wonder if her husband ever intended to bed her.

When staring blankly at the lavender walls of the duchess’s suite passed tedium and strayed toward madness, she flopped back on the counterpane with a frustrated sigh and stared up at the bed’s purple canopy. It seemed to be embroidered with birds. Joyless, awkward birds with wings sprawled at odd angles. Perhaps they were meant to be cranes? To her, they resembled dead partridges ready for plucking. Hardly an inspiring vision for a new bride to contemplate whilst performing her wifely duties. She hoped the duke preferred darkness, when he came to consummate this marriage.

If he came to consummate this marriage.

They’d left Beauvale House shortly following that mockery of a ceremony. A tense, silent carriage ride conveyed them to Morland’s residence. At the door, he’d handed her off to the housekeeper with the terse statement: “Tripp will show you to your chambers. See that you rest.”

She had not seen him since.

She had rested. She’d taken tea. She’d thought to spend the afternoon unpacking her trunks and becoming acquainted with the house, but her new lady’s maid informed her that wouldn’t be necessary. His Grace had decreed they’d be leaving for Braxton Hall tomorrow.

Tomorrow?

Confronted with that disquieting information, Amelia had sought refuge in a hot bath. She had dressed with great care for dinner, and then she had dined alone. When she finally summoned the courage to inquire after His Grace’s whereabouts, she was informed that the duke had gone out riding.

Pah. Her wedding day, and already she’d been abandoned for a horse.

Now, several hours after that solitary dinner, Amelia lay on the counterpane in her sheerest muslin shift, fingering the eyelet neckline and wondering if she’d made a terrible mistake. Her thoughts returned again and again to that morning, and to Mr. Bellamy’s accusations. At the time, she had rejected the idea instinctively. The Duke of Morland might be a disagreeable, arrogant, cold sort of man, but she couldn’t believe him capable of murder.

But then she thought of that bank draft. Twenty thousand pounds. He was willing to pay twenty thousand pounds for a one-tenth share in a racehorse—the exact same amount he’d settled on Amelia, who came all of one piece. Independent of any aspersions cast on the duke’s character, those amounts spoke eloquently of his priorities.

And then there was that breathtaking, violent punch to Bellamy’s jaw.

No doubt another lady would have found that moment thrilling, when her bridegroom sent fist crashing into face to defend her honor. But Amelia had had five brothers, each of whom had thrown punches ostensibly in her defense, and she knew better. Men hit one another because they felt like hitting one another, and the “fair lady’s honor” bit was usually no more than a convenient excuse.

If the duke had slammed Mr. Bellamy to the floor for insulting Amelia … what might he be capable of doing, if the stakes were something he truly cared about?

No, no, no. She’d been with him that night at the ball. Granted, he’d arrived after Leo was already dead, but … his behavior hadn’t been that of a murderer. Had it? Amelia had to be honest; she had no idea how a man would act after committing a murder. Might he promptly show his face in public, to allay suspicion? Become pale and ill when challenged, perhaps even abscond to a secluded terrace? Toss obscene amounts of money at the victim’s surviving family, marry the only witness to his suspicious behavior, and make hasty arrangements to leave town?

She flung her wrist over her eyes. Oh, Lord. What had he done?

What had she done?

She snapped up in bed. Perhaps it was not too late. The marriage was not yet consummated. If she could just escape this house and get back to Laurent’s, she could request an annulment. She rose from bed, threw a wrapper over her shoulders and opened the window. For an early summer night, it was quite cool. But if she could dress on her own, evade the servants, slip down to the street somehow, find a hack …

No, there was too much danger inherent in a furtive escape, and Amelia wasn’t stupid. Whatever Morland had done, she doubted he posed a threat to her life. She could not say the same for the miscreants who roamed the darkened London streets.

Maybe she could simply send a note to Laurent, and he would come for her in the landau. Yes, that was it. She would bribe a footman to deliver it without His Grace’s knowledge. Or if everything else failed, she could feign illness and demand a doctor’s attention. It wasn’t even that late yet. It was only just now—she peered at the mantel clock—

Twelve.

A latch scraped open, and she jumped in her skin.

The duke entered through the connecting door, and Amelia clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress a bubble of inane laughter. What a ninny she’d been, to expect his arrival even a minute earlier.

After all, this was the Duke of Midnight.

Even she had to admit he lived up to the romantic appellation tonight. Standing in the doorway, dressed only in a shirt and loose trousers, he regarded her with unwavering, unnerving intent. He was obviously fresh from a bath, for his hair was still wet. Dark, untamed curls caught a warm gloss from the firelight. Amelia’s gaze bounced from one newly revealed piece of him to the next—his sinewy forearms, the wedge of chest exposed by the open collar of his shirt, his bare feet. He was so sinfully attractive, he could have been the Devil himself.

“Are you well?” he asked, his brow creasing. He probably hadn’t expected to open the door and find his bride standing at the open window, pressing a hand to her mouth.

Amelia considered feigning illness. Clutching her belly, falling to the floor, writhing in agony until a doctor or her brother arrived to rescue her. With a rueful sigh, she decided against it. From her childhood, she’d been a very poor liar.

“I am well,” she said slowly. “Only disturbed by my thoughts. And by the birds.”

“The birds?” He tilted his head and looked toward the window.

“On the canopy,” she clarified.

He crossed to the bed and flung himself on it, rolling over onto his back. The mattress protested with a loud creak.

“Yes, I see,” he muttered, lacing his hands behind his head and staring upward. “Disturbing indeed. Are they vultures?”

“I think they’re meant to be cranes.”

“Cranes?” He cocked his head for a different angle.

Amelia averted her eyes. It seemed indecent, somehow, to keep staring at him as he lay on the bed, all rangy limbs and masculine sprawl. At least, the sight took her mind to indecent places.

“Whatever they are,” he said, “they’ll be gone the next time we’re in this house. We can’t have such an affront in your bedchamber.”

“I don’t know that I’d call it an affront. An affront to cranes, perhaps.”

“No, it’s an affront to anyone with eyes. But especially to you.”

“Why especially to me?”

“You’re accomplished with a needle, are you not?”

“I suppose.” Puzzled, Amelia folded her hands over her belly. She was indeed proud of her skill at embroidery, but how would he know that?

Ah, yes. The handkerchief. She wondered briefly what had become of it. Then she wondered briefly what had become of her wits. He could have her silly handkerchief, and welcome to it. She had to get out of this room, out of this marriage.

“For tonight,” he said, rolling onto his side and propping himself on one elbow, “I’ll simply put out the light.”

“No,” she blurted out.

“No?” He drew up to a sitting position. “Then let’s move by the fire. It’s gone drafty in here.”

Amelia watched in silence as the duke rose from the bed and shut the window. He then gathered the pillows and blankets from the bed and arranged them in a heap by the hearth. Taking up the poker, he added more coal and stirred the fire until she could feel the flames’ warmth from the center of the room.

Was this the same arrogant, ill-mannered man she’d married this morning? Dukes didn’t close their own windows or arrange their own pillows or build their own fires. And yet he performed these simple tasks with an unaffected, manly strength that was both reassuring and arousing. Here was that flash of humanness again. He certainly hadn’t the look of a cold-blooded killer.

As the light and warmth of the fire grew, her shadowy suspicions receded, until she began to feel a bit silly for entertaining them. Had she truly been standing at the window a few minutes ago, contemplating scaling the drainpipe in her dressing gown to escape her villainous bridegroom?

Really, Amelia. This isn’t a gothic novel, you know.

In her heart, she just couldn’t believe this man capable of murder. But then, she knew herself to be a trusting soul—often to a fault. Nevertheless, if she wanted some assurance of his innocence, there was nothing to prevent her from asking for it.

“There,” he said, clapping the coal dust from his hands and wiping them on his trousers. “No more disturbing birds. What of the disturbing thoughts? Is there something I can do to exorcise them?” He sat down before the fire and motioned for her to join him.

“Perhaps.” She gingerly arranged herself atop a pillow and pulled a blanket over her lap. “Where have you been? The butler told me you’d gone riding.”

“I did, for a while. I was attending to various matters in preparation for our departure. We leave tomorrow for Cambridgeshire.”

“So my maid informs me.” Beneath the blanket, Amelia crossed her legs. “Why so soon?” she asked, trying not to sound too disheartened. Had he even considered whether she would wish to leave London tomorrow? She wouldn’t have a chance to bid her brothers farewell. And where was the fun in being a duchess, if her old friends couldn’t pay calls and ply her with “Your Grace”s until they all collapsed into girlish giggling?

“My ward, Claudia, will soon return from York. I’m eager to see her again, and eager for her to make your acquaintance. Besides, I have no further business in London at the moment.”

“Because you have married now?”

He shook his head. “I told you, I didn’t come to London for a wife. I came for the horse.”

She quietly groaned. Not that horse again.

“I meant to win Osiris fairly, but the contest is now stalemated. One of the tokens is in unknown hands, and neither Bellamy nor Ashworth will risk his share. There’s no point to my remaining in London. I despise city living.”

“I see,” she muttered, trying to come to terms with her status in his life as a sort of consolation prize, barely worth making plans around. “If you did not come to London for a wife, tell me again why it is you’ve married me?”

He was silent for several moments. “I’d rather show you.”

Her heart stuttered. What with the pillows, the toasty fire, and all this unpleasant murder business … she’d nearly forgotten the entire reason behind his visit to her bedchamber.

Evidently he had not.

Her blood heated as he swept her with a possessive gaze. She felt a blush rising on her neck and throat. Beneath the translucent fabric of her shift, her nipples rose to tight, self-conscious peaks. She was certain he saw them. She imagined he gave a little smile.

He reached out to grasp the hem of her shift where it peeked out from beneath her blanket. She stared at his fingers as he teased the bit of fabric, sliding the muslin back and forth over his thumb. He wasn’t even touching her, but her nerves didn’t seem to understand that. Her breath caught audibly, and his smile widened. She had the sense that he was toying with her, just as he toyed with that edge of her shift. Demonstrating that even his smallest actions had such power over her. The wolfish glint in his eyes said, in no uncertain terms, that before the night was out he meant to conquer her absolutely.

She gulped. And said, “Did you murder Leo Chatwick?”

Poof.

He fell back against the pillows, as if she’d kicked him in the chest.

Amelia took advantage of that increased distance to draw a deep breath. Thank heaven. Now she had him on the defensive.

“What did you just ask me?”

“Did you murder Leo Chatwick?”

The hollows of his cheeks blanched. “You would ask me this now? You seemed convinced of my innocence this morning.”

“Yes. But then you left me alone all day, with only my thoughts and those ghastly cranes for company. And as I recall the scene now, I realize … you never truly answered the question.”

“I didn’t think there was any question. No one who knows me could give any credit to Bellamy’s accusations.”

“But that’s my point. I don’t know you, not very well.”

“Well enough to consent to marry me.”

She tugged on a blanket, drawing it up to her breasts and wrapping it snugly around her body. “I consented to a betrothal. Normally those last longer than one day.”

He arched a brow at her.

She repaid the sardonic gesture with an arched brow of her own. Perhaps it was unseemly of her to pursue this line of questioning. But it was true that he’d never expressly denied Mr. Bellamy’s charges. Not that morning, not now. He seemed to think it beneath his effort, and Amelia didn’t like being made to feel beneath his effort. A man ought to be willing to earn his wife’s trust. “Where were you, before you arrived at the Bunscombes’ ball that night?”

“I was here.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.” His brow furrowed. “The servants would support that, if asked.”

“If they are loyal servants who value their employment, I’m certain they would support whatever their master said.”

His jaw tightened with anger. “See here. I have just this morning given that guttersnipe Bellamy twenty thousand pounds to fund an investigation into Harcliffe’s death. Why would I do such a thing if I were responsible?”

“I don’t know,” Amelia said. “I do know that twenty thousand pounds is a sum you toss around rather lightly. It seems to be the going rate for everything you purchase—wives, shares in horses … why not exoneration too?”

He stared hard at her for a long moment, those hazel eyes burning into hers. Then he rose to his feet and quit the bedchamber, slamming the door behind him.

She winced. That was it, then. Would she find herself tossed out on the pavement? Or would he be so charitable as to send for Laurent’s coach?

The door crashed open again. The duke entered, carrying a small lockbox under his arm and a ring of keys in the other hand. He crouched beside her, setting the box on the floor and selecting a key from the ring. Once he had the velvet-lined cache open, he positioned the contents for her perusal.

“There,” he said. “Count them.”

Amelia stared down at the scattered brass discs that represented membership in the Stud Club. Each token was stamped with a horse’s head on one side and, logically, a horse’s tail on the other. So irreverent; so boyish; so very Leo. How could anyone think these misshapen coins worth killing for? “I don’t need to count them. I know there are seven.”

“You believe me, then.”

“I believe you far too intelligent to place Leo’s token with the others, if you did have it.”

With a huff, he flung his arms wide in a posture of martyrdom. “Search the house, if you like.”

“That would likely take a week. And this is but one house; you have six, and doubtless some bank vaults besides.”

“You can’t honestly suspect me of murder. Here I thought you were a woman of some sense.”

“Then treat me like one! You’ve given me no opportunity to know you, no chance to judge your character for myself. All I have are my own observations, and what I see is a man with a great deal of wealth and influence, and very little respect for others’ feelings, who has arranged his life around the procurement of a racehorse, heedless of the lives he ruins in the process. From a purely rational standpoint, I have more reason to suspect you than trust you.”

Muttering an oath, he ran a hand through his hair. “Amelia …”

“Yes, Spencer?”

He blinked, obviously surprised at her use of his Christian name.

“It was in the vows,” she explained. “Would you prefer I call you Morland?”

“I would prefer you call me Your Grace, if you mean to seek an annulment. Is that what you want?”

“I want some answers, that’s all. I’d like to feel I know something of your character, before I allow you …” She blushed. “… certain liberties.”

“I invited you to ask me questions when I proposed.” His gaze was flinty, affronted. “You asked me about cats.”

Amelia knotted her fingers in her lap. It was true, she’d accepted him easily enough, without questioning much of anything outside his bank accounts. She hadn’t considered that her lack of curiosity might be construed as an insult. To be truthful, she hadn’t believed him possessed of emotions at all.

He sat back on his heels. “Tell me what it is you’d like to know. Specifically.”

“Specifically, I want to know my husband is not a murderer. But to that general purpose, I’d like to understand why this horse is worth so much to you. Why you would happily ruin my brother’s hopes in pursuit of it, but you’d draw the line at killing Leo. I want to know why you became ill at the ball—and you were ill, don’t try to deny it. Why did you insist we marry so quickly, so quietly? Why are you hustling me off to the country, away from all my family and friends? Was your youth truly as wild and uncivilized as they say? And on that subject, what’s this mysterious history with Lord Ashworth?”

He blinked. “That’s a very long list of questions.”

“Yes. Precisely my point.”

“Very well,” he said, his voice dark and intense. “Then here are mine. I’d like to know whether that freckle on your left breast is a solitary mark, or part of a vast constellation. I’d like to know if your nipples are the same coral-pink as your lips, or a darker, tawny shade. I want to know if you’ve touched yourself, learned how to give yourself pleasure. And”—he leaned forward, and her heart leapt into her throat—“I have a deep, desperate need to hear the little noises you make when you come. Specifically.”

Oh my. Amelia quietly reeled. The idea of a man—this man—entertaining such lascivious thoughts about her …

Her? Her.

He raised a brow. “Well?”

Amelia prayed her voice would not tremble as violently as her thighs. “You first.”

He swore and turned away, clearly exasperated. “We reached an agreement. I’m giving you security; you’re giving me an heir. Your body was part of the bargain. An inquisition into my life’s history was not. I’m not in the habit of explaining myself, to anyone.”

“Not even to a wife?”

“Especially not to a wife.” He poked at the fire. “God damn it, Amelia. When I offered to marry you, it was because I expected things between us to be easy.”

His words made her wilt inside. Yes, of course. He wanted her because she was easy. Convenient. Desperate. A woman he needn’t take trouble to court or woo. A wife he wouldn’t find it a chore to bed. A vessel for his seed. But did he honestly believe she should surrender her body to him, when he couldn’t be bothered to secure her faith in his basic human decency? If he had the right to question her about her private activities under the coverlet on lonely nights, surely she had the right to be assured he was not a murderer.

She said, “Yes, well. No doubt you’ll think me a foolish, deluded spinster for it, but I’ve decided I’m worth a modicum of effort.”

“Effort? Do you suppose it an easy task, to arrange our wedding and departure from Town in the space of a single day?”

“For a man of your means and influence? Yes.” When he did not respond, she hugged herself and added, “We seem to be at an impasse.”

“An impasse,” he repeated. “Allow me to be absolutely certain I understand you. You refuse to consummate the marriage until you’re convinced of my innocence? Bellamy’s investigation should unearth that proof soon enough. It had better, considering the funds I’ve provided him.”

“Well, then. Is it so inconceivable to request a few days’ delay?” She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. It took no small amount of courage, to set him a hurdle like this. But if she did not assert herself now, she knew she would never have a chance. “Leo’s death, our betrothal, now the wedding—it’s all happened so fast. Too fast for my comfort. I see it angers you, that I cannot take you at your word. It disappoints me, too. A wife should be able to trust her husband implicitly. If you gave me some time, allowed me to understand you better …” She bit her lip. “Maybe tonight, we could simply talk.”

“Talk,” he echoed.

“Yes. You know, chat.”

“Chat.” From the disdain in his voice, one would think she’d suggested they quilt, or polish silver. For heaven’s sake, what was so revolutionary about the concept?

Perhaps it was just a matter of choosing the right topic. Even Michael, the quietest of the d’Orsay men, could go on about celestial navigation until the stars faded at dawn. “To begin with, why don’t we talk about horses? Why is owning Osiris so important to you?”

“I don’t want to talk.” He relocked the box of tokens and shoved it aside. “I don’t want to chat. About horses, or murder, or anything else. I want to bed my wife and then get some sleep.”

Leaning forward, he prowled across the cushions that separated them until he had her body caged between his broad, muscled arms. With a swift tug, he robbed her of the blanket she clutched. His long fingers roughly encircled her thigh, branding her flesh through the thin chemise. “As your husband, I am entitled to certain rights.”

“Yes.” Her pulse pounded in her throat, and she swallowed hard around it. “And it would certainly tell me something of your character, if you mean to take them by force.”

“The same way I ‘forced’ you to embrace me in Beauvale’s study?”

His grip on her leg went slack, but he didn’t release her. Rather, he began dragging teasing arcs with his thumb, caressing her inner thigh. Her skin burned beneath his touch.

When he spoke, his voice was firm but husky. Deeply arousing. “Do you truly want to know me, Amelia?”

She nodded.

“Then know this.” Lifting his hand from her thigh, he trailed his fingertips over her collarbone, dipping to trace the neckline of her shift. “I’ve been waiting to kiss you all damned day.”

The words alone left her breathless. And then his mouth took hers in a dizzying kiss.

She kissed him back. Imprudently. Wantonly. Foolishly. Passionately.

This was exactly the paradox that had landed her in this situation. She never would have consented to marry him, if not for this kiss. Whenever he spoke, he used that wide, sensuous mouth to dismiss and insult her. But when his lips met hers, he became a different man. Solicitous, considerate. He afforded her respect, never overpowering her with his strength. He encouraged her cooperation with gentle sweeps of his tongue.

And he made it far too easy to imagine there was something besides mere lust behind this kiss.

Don’t think it, she told herself. In his own words, this was a business transaction. Her security for his heir.

But as he deepened the kiss, she sighed. Her hand went up to clasp his neck.

She teased her bare fingertips through his damp, luxuriant curls, and he rewarded her with a guttural moan that echoed and swelled in her most feminine places. Her aching breasts. The damp cleft between her legs. Her heart.

He could claim them all, far too easily. She knew herself too well to believe otherwise. Already her blood pounded with lust for him, with the bone-jarring force of an army marching out to war. With the slightest encouragement, her affection would no doubt traipse blithely behind, like the village idiot. As the only woman in a family of five brothers, unreasoned devotion to undeserving men came all too naturally to her.

The enormity of the day’s events struck home with sudden force. She’d married a virtual stranger. Given him license to possess her body, but taken no precautions to safeguard her soul. With a twenty-seven-hour betrothal, she simply hadn’t had time to prepare. To draw the boundaries that would protect her in this cold, impersonal bargain they’d struck. Within these borders lies the essential Amelia: You may come this far, and no further.

“Amelia.” He breathed her name against her ear. “I must have you.”

She began to tremble, and a whimper caught in the back of her throat.

The sound gave him a start. He pulled away and stared hard at the slope of her shoulder, where her flesh quivered under his touch. “You are truly frightened.”

“Yes,” she said honestly. “You frighten me.”

“Damn it, I didn’t kill anyone. You’ve no reason to fear me.”

“Oh, I do. I have every reason.” And none of those reasons had a whit to do with Leo’s death. Her fears were originated right here, in the heat between them and the veiled emotion in his eyes. Could she dare put them into words?

I’m afraid of imagining you feel more for me than you do. Afraid of wanting too much, needing you more than you’ll ever have a use for me. I’m terrified that there’s more to you than I suspected, but you’ll never let me see it all. That I’ll give you everything I have, and you won’t even offer a few answers in return. And I need some time—just a little time—to learn how to offer you my body without risking my foolish, fragile heart.

“Leo’s token,” she whispered. “When it’s found, I’ll know you’re blameless.”

His eyes hardened as he withdrew his hand. “Very well. While Leo’s killers walk free, I’ll not come to you. But once that token is recovered and I am proved innocent, there will be no further delay. And when I do take you, I will have all of you. Touch all of you. Taste all of you. You’ll deny me nothing.”

She stared up at him, paralyzed with longing and fear.

“Say yes, Amelia.”

“Yes,” she managed. What a devil’s bargain she’d just sealed.

He rose to his feet and made to leave the bedchamber. Amelia fell back against the pillows and pressed her thighs together, attempting to ease the sweet, maddening ache in her womb.

At the door, he stopped. “And Amelia? Even though I’ve pledged not to come to you, there’s nothing to keep you from coming to me.” With one last burning glance, he reached for the door handle. “The door’s unlocked, if there’s anything you need.”