He was sitting at his desk when she woke up several hours later. Shirtless, barefoot, dressed only in black trousers, he played solitaire in the muted morning light. She studied his sharp profile in silence.

How cruel of him to have introduced her to carnality and then sit down to a game of cards while she slept off the excess of their wedding night.

“I envy your ability to concentrate,” she said from the bed, swallowing to ease the tightness in her throat.

He swiveled around from his desk. His eyes made a long assessment of her person, or what he could perceive of it behind her screen of bedding. She was not certain he’d left her with any secrets to hide. He owned her after last night.

“I’ve lost a dozen times in a row,” he admitted.

“I’ve brought you bad luck?”

He tossed down his cards, stood, and came to the side of the bed. “I’ve won what matters -- do you always look this appealing in the morning?”

“You are an engaging sight yourself, shaven and half-attired. I do need a bath.”

He hovered between the bedposts. “Why? I find your ravished appearance more arousing than I should confess. I’ve seen you in worse condition.”

“Do not remind me.”

His mouth thinned into a smile. In a certain light he could look cold, even detached. But then she had always struggled to guess what he was thinking. Did he rue his choice? Did she?

Her body felt no regret.

Her heart felt blissfully free.

“You aren’t ashamed of what we did, are you?” he asked, lowering himself to the bed.

“No.” His nearness discomposed her senses. She ran her hands through her tangled black curls. “I wonder how Isolde fared in her country escapade. I could use her help right now. She has guided me through more than a few misadventures that resulted in untidy hair.”

“But right now you’re all mine.” He settled his shoulders back against the carved mahogany headboard. “I’m happy to serve in her place. Show me where to begin.”

“I’ll comb it in a while. Don’t you try.”

She looked away to hide her thoughts. He was too close, too potently male, too self-possessed to contend with first thing in the morning. Especially this morning. She felt exposed, muddled, and yet somehow glorious. “How did this happen to us, Simon?”

He shook his head in apology. “We have a long time to work it out. But I couldn’t have imagined any better start than last night. Could you?”

She sighed. “I could never have imagined most of what went on in this room.”

“Never? Not even once when we were at the castle?”

She shook her head slowly. “Did you?”

“Not if you didn’t,” he said prudently.

She grinned. “Did you?”

“I’ve said enough.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

He turned onto his side, drawing her against him until she heard the beat of his heart. “It was good, wasn’t it?”

“You know the answer to that,” she said, and blushed again. “You look so refreshed that I am envious. I feel wilted in comparison. I insist on a bath.”

“As you command.”

He had hastily washed in his closet and could wait for breakfast. He didn’t crave anything but her. Indeed, he was insatiable and had decided during the night that she had become as essential to him as food and air. Which did not justify consuming the whole of her at one time. In the throes of such intense longing, he had to remind himself again he could not afford to let marriage lull him into a disregard for caution.

He would continue his inquiry into Susannah’s death. But now Ravenna’s keeping took priority. He was coming to understand how easily a man could damage a woman’s heart, her body, her psyche, even a woman as fearless and intuitive as his duchess. The law gave a husband permission to control every aspect of his wife’s existence.

The servants brought hot water and towels to the bedchamber, built up the fire and quietly left like friendly ghosts.

He sat on a footstool while Ravenna soaked in a steaming bath, her hair rinsed, combed, and caught back in a knot. His soapy hands slid over her with studied gentleness. This was a ritual he vowed would become habit.

“You’re making me feel like a goddess,” she mused.

“Which to me you are.” The residue of lilac-scented soap outlined his forearms and chest. “I feel like an attendant in a bathing rite.” He dipped the sponge between her breasts, caressing the pointed tips until her head dropped back in enjoyment.

“What do you know about ceremonial bathing?” she asked, half-afraid of what he would answer.

“Only what one of my tutors taught me. The professor was enthralled with Greek mythology. He once showed my brother and me drawings of ancient Greek maidens who were bathed before marriage in a ritual to please the goddess Artemis. He was a lusty old sod now that I think about it.”

“I’m bathing after the fact. Moreover, I don’t have the least interest in placating any mythical deities.”

His gaze followed the descent of his hand to the apex of her thighs. Her lips parted in anticipation. “You have other interests?” he asked, slowly looking up.

“Sufficient unto this day is pleasing the mortal man who is moving that sponge where it doesn’t belong.”

“Hush for a minute,” he said, reaching back to the washstand. “Put this cloth over your eyes.”

“Whatever for?” she asked suspiciously.

“You are relaxed. It’s a good time to reflect. Go back in your mind to the night in the garden.”

She frowned. “Attempted murder isn’t as pleasant a topic as being compared to a goddess. I won’t be relaxed for long.”

“You were standing under the walnut tree,” he said. “A man dropped at your feet. What was he wearing? Did he speak to you? Can you see a face?”

“Yes,” she replied at length. “The face is yours. It is stark and handsome. And if you expect me to remember anything of that night, I shall not do so in the aftermath of having been reduced to a hedonistic state. Is it surprising that after you laid siege to my every sense, I have difficulty recollecting anything more complicated than my own name?”

“You do not have any difficulty expressing your thoughts.”

She pushed off the cloth to open her eyes and regard him in reproach. “I am bereft of any modesty. Allow me a short period of mourning to grieve the maidenly virtue that I have lost.”

He smoothed the sponge over her belly. “Modesty, as I should have explained, is a garment that we shall shed as we enter our private lives. When we are alone, we please no one but each other. And we do not necessarily have to do so in a manner that is considered polite.”

Isolde bent over the man curled under a blanket in the narrow bed. His light snores gave her pause. He looked exhausted, albeit dashing in the duke’s cambric shirt, snug trousers, his dark hair in a tangle. The scallywag deserved his sleep.

Should her concerns wait until daylight? She decided not. Murderers did not linger about waiting to be caught at one’s convenience. She must scour her heart of consideration and remember lives could be at risk. Hers and his. Lady R and the gallant duke.

She reached down tentatively to the sinewy arm that covered one side of his face. He awakened and instantly swung upright in a defensive reflex, his fist raised to her chin. His unfocused eyes apparently perceived her as an enemy.

“Mr. Timpkins!” She swung back like a professional boxer as his knuckles grazed the hollow between her throat and jaw. “Calm yourself. It is me.”

“Good God. Oh, hell, miss. I almost planted you a facer. What time of the day is it? I didn’t hit you, did I? I did. Here, let me have a look.”

“You did no damage by good fortune.” She retreated from the bed, concealing a reluctant smile. “It’s turning light. I apologize for this intrusion, but the head maid burst into my room a minute ago insisting that she’d sighted a strange man beneath her window.”

He scratched his shoulder. “Well, it wasn’t me. I’ve been out cold.”

“I know that,” she said in frustration, stepping over the hat on the floor. “I thought you should be alerted.”

“And you were right to rouse me.”

He threw off the blanket and stamped his booted feet to the floor. Thank goodness he’d not undressed for bed. “You will wrinkle the duke’s shirt and breeches sleeping in them like that,” she said softly.

“I beg your pardon, but I nodded off the minute I sat on the bed. You wouldn’t want to come upon me as I sleep most nights.”

“I’ll remember that in future.”

He rose with a great yawn and grabbed the frock coat slung over the bed. She eyed his figure covertly. He might be brash, but he looked muscular, threatening even. She pitied the intruder who crossed his path, and the woman -- great heavens, what a thought. At a time like this.

“I patrolled the grounds not an hour ago,” he said, fortunately oblivious to her thoughts. “The undergardener is supposed to be on duty now. Young fool is probably drinking in the delphiniums.”

“The maid’s window faces the family vaults.”

He thrust his arms into the coat. “I know where her room is.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” she murmured, lifting her gaze primly to the wall.

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”

“One says ‘Excuse me.’”

“For what?”

She gave a sigh. “In the improbable event that we have been mistaken for the duke and duchess and were followed from London, you are a target. Especially in that coat. It gives you a lordly air. You might want to exercise caution as you proceed.”

The compliment went over his head. He strode from the room into the hall. “I hope you don’t expect me to change.”

“You should at least put a hat on that hair,” the head maid said from outside the door where she anxiously awaited Isolde. “His grace would not be caught in his crypt looking like a scarecrow.”

Isolde frowned at this vanity. “This strange man could have galloped to the coast by now. Mr. Timpkins does not need to worry about his hair when our lives might be in jeopardy. You are armed, aren’t you, sir?”

“Always.” He patted his pocket and headed down the stairs. “Stay inside, ladies. And save a place for me at the breakfast table. I’ve a feeling this will be a fruitless chase, but one is obliged to make certain.”