Chapter Six

A woman who gave her name as Mrs. Kent had appeared, offering to assist Alicia with her bath. Mrs. Kent was full of youth and vigor. When she announced she was married to the butler, Alicia failed to hold back surprise.

Alicia apologized immediately.

“Go on,” Mrs. Kent waved her hand. “You aren’t the first to give us the eye. The difference in age ’tisn’t anybody’s concern but ours, is it? He makes me laugh and,” she winked, “he’s a right bit better than my first husband, rest his soul.”

First husband.

As she bathed, she tested and discarded the phrase. ‘Admiral Octavius Stone, my first husband,’ implied there would be a next. She may long to experience passion, but no man alive could convince her to become his bride.

Enough certainly was enough, thank you very much.

After helping Alicia towel dry, Mrs. Kent lifted a fresh shift over Alicia’s head. The fabric slithered down over her curves gentler than a whisper.

“Linen?” she asked.

“Yes, linen,” Mrs. Kent answered. “Soft, ’tisn’t it? I never saw the like.” She leaned back and squinted. “Did I do it right?”

Alicia straightened the gown. “Perfect, as far as I’m concerned.”

Mrs. Kent began collecting the towels. “I’m afraid I’ve never played lady’s maid before.”

Laughter bubbled up in Alicia’s throat. Fear, she supposed. Fear or hysteria.

“Are you well?” Mrs. Kent asked.

Alicia nodded. “It’s just that you didn’t hesitate to use the word lady.”

Mrs. Kent squinted one eye. “You’re quality, anyone can see that.” She shrugged. “Mr. Kent don’t judge, and neither do I. Besides, the duke’s come back. Your doin,’ I think. That’s quite something, indeed.”

With those astonishing words, Mrs. Kent look her leave.

The duke came back? What could she have possibly meant by that?

Alicia wrapped her arms about her waist. The room was as ancient as the entry hall, decorated by intricately carved, dark wood panels. Thick velvet curtains blocked out the storm beyond. The room’s single inviting feature was the bed.

She touched the dressing gown lying across the mattress. The fabric was pale pink and somehow familiar. She ran her hand over the fabric. Silk. Not just silk but silk so finely woven, it spilled through her fingers like water.

Then she remembered. This was the dressing gown she’d been admiring at Marie’s.

Ah. The duke wasn’t a devil, he was the most dangerous kind of man—the kind who noticed, the kind who remembered.

The kind who made a lady’s wishes come true.

She slipped into the dressing gown. The fire in her belly was anticipation come to tingling life. This was wrong. All of this, wrong. But it felt like the moment she’d been waiting for all her days.

Cloaked in a fine linen shift and then wrapped in a luxurious silken robe, she was at once uncertain and at home. Though, if the duke did not appear soon, the uncertainty would win. She would run from the room screaming like a madwoman.

Or she could behave like the composed woman she was and calmly take a seat.

She sat on the mattress, though it did little to bring her calm.

Mrs. Kent had left a few slices of cheese, bread, and a steaming cup of—she leaned forward and sniffed—chocolate. Tempting as the chocolate was, how was she to eat or drink when she could barely swallow?

A knock at the door made her jump.

“Come in.” Was that her voice, all satin and invitation? Good heavens, if a mere hour in this place had brought on that change, what would she sound like at the end of three days?

Nights, my lady. She shuddered.

The duke entered. He rested his gaze on her lips. She curved them into a shape she hoped resembled a smile. He sauntered forward and placed a finger under her chin.

“You can do better than that.”

“I’m afraid not,” she said.

His gaze slid to the sideboard. “You haven’t so much as nibbled.”

“I am too unsettled to eat.”

“A drink will help.”

“The chocolate is too hot.”

“How about brandy?” He lifted a glass she had not noticed was in his hand.

Octavius had disapproved of ladies who drank spirits. She accepted the glass and sipped. A taste like summer’s heat burned her throat. Berries—cherry, currant, raspberry, and a hint of spice—all things opposite the dark, wild wind beyond the window. She warmed from the inside out.

“Delicious,” she said.

He joined her on the bed. She swallowed another sip and what was left of her pride.

“What next?” If her breath came any faster, tears might follow.

He tilted his head. “We haven’t discussed protections.”

“Protections?”

“I have a wrapper. I left it in the adjoining room.”

She frowned.

“The kind used to prevent pregnancy,” he explained.

Her lips formed an O. “That doesn’t sound...”

“Comfortable?” he offered. “It is not.”

“There is—” She bit her lip hard enough to induce pain and looked away. Hadn’t the duke heard the woman on the day of the procession? She was barren. “There is no need for precaution. I was married for eight years and did not bear a child.”

“If you are certain, I won’t use the wrapper.”

Her brow creased. “Certain?”

“Perhaps the fault was not yours.”

“Please do not mock me.” She drew her legs upward, a curling as much an outward display of protection as it was an inward defense.

He moved his body to catch her eye. “I will never mock you,” he vowed.

She sent him an accusatory glare. “You know the countess bore my late husband’s child.”

“I know the admiral claimed a child. Neither of us, I believe, are privy to the exact circumstances of the child’s birth.”

She sat straight. “Are you implying Octavia is not his?”

“Are you offended on behalf of your husband’s mistress?”

“Not on her behalf.” She looked away. On behalf of love, she supposed. Only a deep, abiding, and—yes—faithful love could have caused Octavius to humiliate his family as he had.

And Octavia was an innocent, born into circumstances beyond her control.

The duke brushed aside her hair with gentle fingers. “Come back,” he said.

“I have not left,” she huffed.

“Your husband should have desired you.”

“He did.” Her lip quivered. “In his way.”

The duke leaned forward, surprising her with the lightest of kisses. Their first kiss, she realized with shock. His lips were warm, dry and infinitely tender. Tender, yes, but potent enough to vanquish thoughts of Octavius. From the moment his mouth touched hers, every inch of her body lit from within.

“Breathe,” the duke said.

Air entered her chest in a rush. Her inexperience became painfully clear. She was rabbit to his hawk, no matter how gentle his touch.

“With you,” she felt her cheeks heat, “I am not myself. I detest the power you have over me.”

He did not seem perturbed. “Power is the most ancient of aphrodisiacs.”

She had not been drawn to the duke because of his title.

She hadn’t even known he possessed a title at first. She’d been drawn to him because of the way he’d looked at her—as if she mattered, as if he understood.

He traced a lazy line up her arm before resting his hand on her shoulder. Her heart beat in a jagged rhythm, half terror and half anticipation—Persephone waking to discover she had been taken, against her will, to the underworld. Although, unlike Persephone, she had willingly entered the duke’s lair.

Ashbey represented darkness and heat and all things forbidden, and she wanted him with a power strong enough to stamp out both reason and virtue. Once before, she had done everything as she should. Misery had been the result. This time, she would do everything she ought not, and perhaps—

Perhaps what? What was the unspoken wish inside her heart?

“You’ve disappeared again.” His voice soothed.

“You frighten me,” she said.

“Describe fear.”

“Is it not obvious?”

“No.” He leaned back. “Where does your fear reside?”

She kept her eyes from rolling. “You know how fear feels, Duke.”

“Do I?” He tilted his head. “Perhaps I did, once. Humor me.”

She frowned. “My chest is constricted.”

“How?”

Her frown deepened. “As if I were wearing stays.”

“Breathe,” he reminded again. “And go on.”

Why did she feel like a bug, pinned for examination? “I fear what you will do next and yet”—breathe—“my heartbeat pounds when I feel your touch.”

He placed her closed palm against his cheek. Reflexively, she opened her hand. The flesh beneath her fingers was rough.

“If yours is an apt description,” he said, “then I am not afraid.”

“You are not afraid because I pose no threat to you,” she said accusingly.

“Don’t you?” he asked, more curious than assured, as if internally testing the question.

A mad little laugh broke free. “Hardly, Your Grace.”

“Ash.”

“Pardon?”

“Your Grace will become tedious. Ashbey if you must, but,” he hesitated, “I’d prefer Ash.”

“Do your other friends call you Ash?”

“Yes,” he tilted his head. “Though I think of them as allies more than friends.”

She tugged on her hand. He held fast.

“Ah, I see your meaning,” he said slowly. “You should know that no other woman has occupied in this room. Not in my lifetime, at least.”

“You were married.”

“Yes.” His gaze shuttered. “She did not...join me here.” His tone flattened. “Been reading the peerage, have you?”

Yes. And curious as to why his wife and father had died on the same day. But she had no right to pry.

Her throat, suddenly dry, proved remarkably resistant to the apology she wished to offer.

“Ashbey,” she managed. “Why am I the first?”

“I haven’t any idea.” His gaze remained glacial, but its clarity could not be mistaken. He ran a finger along her face. “I respond to a pretty woman, as most men do, but I have felt nothing. Not for a very long time.” His eyes warmed. “Until you.”

Despite the fire and the silken robe, she shivered. “Until me?”

He nodded. “When I saw you looking at the woman who’d insulted you, I hurt with you. I felt pain.”

How could one respond? “And?”

“And I gambled you could make me feel more.”

She blushed, hot and full-bodied. And then she stood, even though he still held her hand. A fury that she’d never felt before coursed through her veins.

“My grief is not for sale, Your Grace. Even for an audience of one.”

Especially for an audience of one.

Pain sailed through him. Again. This time, followed by an inner demand.

Do something or she will leave.

In her presence, he became human. Flawed, yes, but real.

“I cannot buy your grief—” he rose to his feet, placing himself between Lady Stone and the door “—any more than I can buy you.”

“You can. You have. And you did.” She pointed at him in accusation. “And don’t you go throwing that free will rubbish in my direction.”

He lifted his brows. “You said your chest was tight?”

She frowned but nodded.

“Now mine is, as well.” Sensation was glorious. She was glorious. He smiled. “I believe, Lady Stone, I am frightened you will leave.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

“Because feeling is sublime.” He rose to his feet and gathered her into his arms. Feeling may be sublime, but Lady Stone was stiff with righteous fury. “Is your chest still tight?”

She blinked, startled. “No.”

Bless her, she could not lie.

“Does your heart still pound?”

Her expression shot daggers. “I will not say.”

Without taking his eyes from hers, he unlaced his robe and let it fall. She gasped. Ignoring the parts of him in full arousal, he placed her hand against his chest.

“Fear,” he said, “...and desire.”

She wet her lips. Progress. He drew her hand to his shoulder and threaded his arm around her waist, a cautious cradle. She remained stiff as a frightened fawn.

“Shh,” he whispered. “Shh.”

She took a deep breath and then her muscles lost their fight. She collapsed against his chest with a heartfelt sigh.

He, whom even his allies referred to as Hades, finally held his angel in his arms.

He and Bianci had come together—fucked, in common parlance. But this feeling? He would have pledged eternal devotion if she would have asked. He had pledged eternal devotion. And she hadn’t even had to ask. Whatever existed between them, he’d never known its like.

The longing welled deep. His pain—and hers—spun in the ether like woolen thread, thinning and twisting, binding them in knots even he could not untie.