He’d barely slept at all.

As the first tendrils of gray morning light crept beneath the curtains on the window, Simon blinked. But he had slept. Otherwise, he wouldn’t now find himself tangled with Diana.

Her back was pressed to his chest, her leg thrust between his. Despite frigging himself in an embarrassingly short amount of time last night, his cock was hard and eager against her hip. This was bloody torture.

He eased himself away from her, putting scant, but necessary, inches between them. He rolled to his back and draped his hand over his eyes to block out not just the burgeoning light, but the memory of last night.

And failed miserably.

The eagerness of her enticing arousal and the innocence of her ardent response had completely undone him. He’d nearly spilled himself as he lay beside her. He sensed that she wouldn’t have minded if he’d finished himself right then, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’d already gone too far. How in the hell were they going to spend today together in the close confines of the coach? Let alone the rest of the days? Thankfully, they were about halfway to their destination. Maybe three or four more nights. He prayed the weather continued to hold.

Removing his arm from his eyes, he looked over at her again. Her beauty stole his breath. She was now on her back, her dark lashes fanned over her pale cheeks, and her dark pink lips beckoned for his kiss.

He practically jumped off the pallet in his eagerness to be away from her. He dressed quickly and quietly, then pondered what to do next—wake her or steal outside to frig himself again?

He didn’t get to decide because Ogden chose that moment to leap out of bed stark naked. “Morning, Byrd. I trust you slept well!” He chortled, then shuddered. “Damn me, it’s cold!” He quickly found his shirt and drew it over his head.

Simon turned from him and peeked around the pallet to see if the ruckus had awakened Diana. She was rubbing her eyes and pushing herself up to a sitting position. The blanket fell to her waist, exposing the thin lawn of her night rail. Simon could make out the gentle curve of her breasts and quickly jerked his gaze up to her face. That wasn’t any safer. Her lids were still heavy and her lips parted. She looked as if she’d just been shagged. Or maybe that was only his wishful thinking.

Shit, he was in trouble. He never should’ve done what she’d asked last night.

And now he had to help her dress. His actions had consigned him to hell. A hell he likely deserved for taking advantage.

But had he? She’d asked him to show her. He hadn’t taken anything from her.

“Shall we go downstairs and let the women dress?” Ogden asked.

Simon looked over at the man, who’d just sat on the bench at the end of the bed to draw on his boots. Before answering, he took a step toward the pallet. Diana’s gaze lifted to his. A gorgeous blush stained her cheeks, and she simultaneously tipped her head down and pulled the blanket up to her chin.

“Just a moment,” Simon said, moving behind the screen. “Do you want me to stay and help you?” he asked softly, then winced at the words that could be taken a number of ways, given the way he’d “helped” her last night.

She shook her head and answered quickly. Too quickly, almost. “No, Mrs. Ogden is a fair ladies’ maid. I’ll see you downstairs.”

He nodded, hating this distance between them. He’d thought they’d become good travel companions, if not friends. Turning, he grabbed his hat from a hook on the wall and left the room with Ogden on his heels.

Ogden elbowed him as they strode down the corridor to the stairs. “Sorry if we bothered you last night. I’m afraid Mrs. Ogden can get a bit noisy.”

Simon said nothing but flicked him a half smile.

“Sounded like Mrs. Byrd was enjoying herself,” Ogden said with a grin.

Yes, it had sounded like she did. It had looked like it too. Watching the flash of ecstasy on Diana’s face had given him the first burst of pure joy he’d felt in over two years. He was both delighted and angered. He didn’t deserve to feel that again. Somehow, it sullied Miriam’s memory, and that was something he had to protect above all else.

They descended the stairs and met with the innkeeper, who’d prepared packages of food for them to take along. Simon found his coachman and told him they’d leave within the half hour. He wanted to get as far away from this inn as possible.

A few minutes later, the women arrived downstairs, and the innkeeper sent a boy up to fetch their luggage.

Mrs. Ogden went directly to her husband’s side, smiling warmly up at him. Diana, on the other hand, could barely look in Simon’s direction.

Eager to be on his way, Simon turned to Ogden and shook his hand. “Thank you again for your kindness last night. Safe travels to you.” He looked at Mrs. Ogden. “And to you.”

“To you as well, Mr. Byrd,” Mrs. Ogden said. She turned to Diana and gave her a fast, tight hug. “Goodbye, Mrs. Byrd.”

Diana’s eyes glazed with surprise. “Um, goodbye.”

Simon put his hand under her elbow and escorted her out into the cold yard. She shivered, and he blamed the cold.

“Come, let’s get into the coach. Tinley is fetching coals for the box. We’ll have you warmed up in no time.”

She cast him a wary look, and he realized they’d need to have a frank discussion as soon as they were in the coach.

A scant ten minutes later, they were situated inside, the warming box beneath their feet and the wool blanket draped over their legs.

“I must beg your forgiveness this morning,” he said without preamble.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Her voice was tight and small.

He had a hard time believing that. She could barely look at him, and she was pushed up against the side of the coach in an effort to ensure she didn’t touch him at all.

“Then why are you acting so skittish?”

The coach rumbled forward, taking them out of the yard and onto the road.

“I’m not.”

She wasn’t making this easy. In fact, she was frustrating the hell out of him. “You won’t look at me. You’re not even completely under this blanket, which can’t make you comfortable. You’re upset with me.”

She looked at him then, her blue eyes vivid and intense in the dim light of the gray December morning. “I am not. I’m upset with me. I never should have asked you to do that last night.”

Of course she regretted it. Any well-bred young woman would. Which was why he never should have done it.

“The fault is mine.”

Instead of calming her, his words seemed to have the opposite effect. Her shoulders puffed up, and her eyes sparked. “It is not. I put you in an unconscionable position.”

She blamed herself? He thought for a moment, considering everything he knew of her, of her upbringing. Of course she blamed herself. She would’ve been taught to do that. “Not unconscionable,” he said lightly. “I would say enviable.”

She pursed her lips and stared at him.

“Any man would’ve killed to do what I did.”

“I’d wager none of them would have been as good at it.”

Oh God, nothing she said could’ve been worse. Or better. Hell, this was a tangle.

“Miss Kingman,” he began, forcing himself to revert to a more appropriate form of address. “What happened last night was wonderful—to me, anyway.”

“It was to me as well,” she said hastily, and again, color rose in her cheeks.

He found her hand beneath the blanket and gave it a squeeze, releasing it quickly for fear he wouldn’t let go. “You mustn’t be embarrassed. Not with me.”

She was quiet a moment and managed to hold his gaze, which he sensed took great courage. “I’ll try. It was…a singular event for me, which, of course, you know.”

“As it was for me, which I think you also know.” He curled his lips into a slight smile. “Let us remember it fondly—our night at the Jolly Goat—and let us not speak of it. Unless you want to.”

“No, that’s fine.”

He thought so too. Better for them to go back to the way things were. “Good. Can we continue as we were?”

“I’d like that.”

He pulled the blanket over so that it completely covered her, which left a bit of his leg exposed. She scooted closer to him—not so they were touching, but so that the blanket could cover them both. They were quiet for a few minutes, and Simon wondered if it was really going to be possible to pretend last night had never happened.

She finally spoke. “You play the role of Mr. Byrd quite well. Since you travel under this alias, may I assume that is how you’ve developed the particulars? The estate, for example.”

“It’s much easier to travel as a simple country gentleman instead of as a duke. Particularly the Duke of Ruin,” he said wryly.

Her blue eyes were dark with concern. No one looked at him like that, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“I doubt the Ogdens would know about that unfortunate nickname.”

“Probably not. Sometimes I think it might be nice to be Mr. Byrd permanently.”

Her brows climbed. “You’d like to run away and disappear? Is that why you suggested that course to me?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Regardless of what I may pretend, I am who I am, and I can’t run away from being a duke.” Nor could he run away from being the Duke of Ruin. Unfortunate as it may be, that was his identity.

“And here I thought there was nothing more confining than being a woman.”

He laughed then, because of the irony in her tone. “I would argue that there isn’t. I may be tied to a dukedom, but really, there are far worse things.”

“Yes,” she said quietly, turning her head to look out the window.

Damn. He wanted to ask what those things might be, certain that she’d experienced some of them, but wasn’t sure she’d answer. They were getting closer, perhaps, to such revelations.

After another minute, she looked back at him. “Tell me about your real estate.”

“Lyndhurst? It’s, ah, quite a bit larger than Byrd’s fictional home.”

“How large?”

“Forty-seven thousand acres.”

Her eyes rounded. “My goodness. I didn’t realize. Usually a peer’s wealth is roundly discussed or at least speculated about.” Her gaze flicked away, and he sensed she wished she hadn’t said that.

He didn’t want her to censor herself. He was sure he’d heard every bad thing that could be said about him. In fact, some of the worst were things he’d said himself. “But not with me. Because of my reputation. No one cares about my wealth, not when they think I’m a murderer. Apparently, there is a line some won’t cross when it comes to seeking power and privilege.”

“You aren’t a murderer.”

There it was. People sometimes said that to him, but more often they simply avoided the topic as if they might somehow catch it, like an ague. As if discussing it could result in their death too.

“You don’t know that,” he said softly. “I don’t know that.” He turned his head toward the window and stared out at the passing hedges. The sky was gray, a bit darker than yesterday. In fact, the clouds were dark enough that he began to worry about precipitation. That wouldn’t be good.

“How long have you been the duke?”

She’d decided on avoidance. He couldn’t blame her. He tried not to bring it up, truly, but it was sometimes impossible. He was, as he’d noted earlier, the Duke of Ruin, the man who’d killed his wife and unborn child and didn’t remember a bit of it.

“Four years.”

“What happened to your father?” she asked.

Simon thought back to that dark period. It had been the worst time of his life, but paled in comparison to what had happened just a couple of years later. “He died suddenly—an accident. He’d been out touring the estate with the steward. His horse went lame, throwing him, and he had the grave misfortune to crack his head on a rock.” He’d died instantly, according to Nevis, and grief had stolen over Lyndhurst.

“How awful. Were you close?”

“Yes, I suppose we were.” But Simon knew he’d disappointed his father a bit, that his indulgences had exceeded even what the former duke had expected when he’d advised his son to sow his wild oats. When his father died, Simon had gone from the Marquess of Lyndhurst, rakehell extraordinaire, to Duke of Romsey, and there had been no question that he would leave his raffish behavior behind and somberly focus on becoming the duke. Simon had been committed to preserving his father’s legacy. So he’d gone home, finished his education of managing the estate that his father had started, and soothed his mother. His sisters, married by then but still distraught, hadn’t required his attention. As they were seven and nine years older than him, they’d never been particularly close.

“Is your mother still with you?”

“She’s still alive, yes.” But she wasn’t “with” him. She’d abandoned him completely after Miriam’s death.

Though he tried not to think of his wife, she was always somewhere in the back of his mind. This conversation brought her to the forefront, sharpening the pain that was always buried within his heart.

After mastering the estate, he’d turned his focus to finding a duchess. When the London Season earned him nothing for his trouble, he’d gone back to Hampshire. It was that summer, when he’d attended a local assembly, that he’d met her—Miriam. With her pale gray eyes, honey-blonde hair, and winsome smile, she’d stolen his heart. He’d never met anyone so sweet or kind or loving. They’d married that fall, and for the next year, he’d inhabited a state of bliss he’d never thought possible. He allowed the memory of that joy to wash over him, closing his eyes lest he spring too quickly into what had come next—unimaginable misery and sorrow.

“Do you want to sleep?” she asked, startling him from his reverie.

He was grateful for the interruption before he could tumble headfirst into the abyss of the past. “No. I was just thinking.” Damn, he shouldn’t have said that. Now she’d ask.

She moved her feet from the warming box. “About your family.”

He exhaled in relief, glad she hadn’t asked about Miriam. But why would she? He made sure everyone knew he believed himself responsible for her death. That shocked and frightened them, and they never broached the subject with him again. Except for Nick, but his best friend had learned to curb his inquiries. Instead, he offered silent support, for it was the only thing Simon would allow.

He yawned then, and Diana swung her gaze to his. “Are you sure you don’t want to sleep?”

No, he wasn’t. He’d gotten precious little last night, thanks to the temptress beside him. “Perhaps I should. For a bit anyway.”

“I’m going to read.”

“Here.” He leaned forward to where a basket sat on the floor. Inside was the food from the inn and the books he’d brought. He found what she was reading, A Gossip’s Story by Jane West, and handed it to her.

“Thank you.”

She opened the book, tilting it toward the window. The light filtered across her face, arcing over the smooth plane of her cheek and the lush bow of her lips. He thought of those lips, rounded into an O as she’d found her release last night.

He closed his eyes tight in an attempt to banish such thoughts. His cock was already hardening, and he was glad for the blanket covering his lower half.

He couldn’t afford to indulge such fantasies. He wouldn’t. He would see her to Lancashire and perhaps somewhere else, if that was what she decided, but he had to keep his distance.

Which was easier thought than done. With each moment they spent together, he liked her more, he admired her more, he enjoyed her company…more.

None of that mattered, however. He couldn’t have more from her—not now. Not ever.